


LISA: The Faithful

by IronVow



Category: LISA (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Kidnapping, Blood, Butterfly Effect, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Childhood Friends, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Cycle of Abuse, Depression, Family Bonding, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gaslighting, Gen, Homelessness, Human Experimentation, Illness, Introspection, Lore Building, Misogyny, Multiple Narrators, Not Beta Read, Parent/Child Incest, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Politics, Pre-Flash Olathe, Prequel to "LISA: The Painful", Reincarnation, Running Away, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Transmigration, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 100,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22207504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronVow/pseuds/IronVow
Summary: Long before the White Flash killed civility, and long before Brad tasted Joy, he had grown disturbingly used to the taste of blood on his tongue. He and his friends were far too young for the lessons they'd learned, but they could never anticipate how much worse things would become.Only one student in their class knows. With wild brown eyes and a fervent desire for friendship that's almost unsettling, Joan is full of so many secrets that she struggles to contain her ambition. Who would believe a tiny child who knows the future? How could she make them see? There's only one thing she knows for certain: Lisa Armstrong is the key to saving Olathe."LISA: The Faithful" is the story of Brad and Lisa Armstrong's childhood. Could Lisa Armstrong be saved? Could the White Flash be avoided? With such high stakes, there's no room for doubt: there can only be faith.
Comments: 146
Kudos: 86





	1. Prologue | Brad I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and thanks for clicking on this story. The cover art belongs to [tourniiquett](https://www.deviantart.com/tourniiquett) on DeviantArt, who was kind enough to let me use it.
> 
> (Also, if this story looks familiar, that's because I uploaded the first few chapters and then deleted it — three years ago. Now I'm back in business and ready to tackle this behemoth of a tale, once and for all. ლ(▀̿̿Ĺ̯̿̿▀̿ლ))
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

* * *

The sun scowled upon the world with a burning fury, sizzling the outfielder’s body from his place at the base. Blinking the sweat from his eyes, he cursed the summer for such discomfort. The white-hot rays of sun were fine, in theory, but the heat that cooked him alive could fuck off into the horizon and never come back. His taste buds ached for a cool, refreshing taste of rum, and the scratchy dryness in his throat only amplified his frustration.

Standing outside in the heat for long periods of time reminded him of his childhood summers and all the misery that came along with the death of spring. Winter, spring and fall belonged to his mother, whereas the intense summer sun was his father’s entirely. It fit with his domineering personality: The whole world and all the people in it had to revolve around him, and anyone who failed to fall on their knees and massage his ass with their tongue was met with a swift punch and a blood-splattered face.

“My son will not be weak,” his father had said once, before the divorce, back when he was an unavoidable cloud that suffocated everyone in the house. The outfielder spat at the ground. His father had been towering before him while spewing his bullshit, sneering as he ground his foot into his son’s face. Never would he forget the feeling of dirt filling his nostrils, nor the throbbing, carnal fear that gripped him as he struggled to gaze upon his father, only to be blinded by the sun.

“No man in our family has ever come home, day after day, beaten to shit,” his father told him, strengthening the pressure in his foot when his son thrashed beneath him. “If doing things your own way means rejecting everything we stand for and staining the family name, then you are no son of mine.”

If he closed his eyes, he could remember the exact cadence with which those words were spoken. Everything, from subtle shifts in tone to the grating bite of anger, was etched into his mind for the rest of his life. His father was like the sun, a burning giant that overshadowed everything else and filled the corners of his mind until there was nothing else left. He couldn’t remember what words he had choked out to appease his father, but he remembered the lightness he felt upon freedom.

His father looked at his dirt-stained son in disgust and stepped back to hawk a comet of saliva into the dirt. He pointed to the side of the house, where a baseball bat rested innocuously against the wall. “If you're not going to use the moves I taught you, you will use that bat. You will beat down the fuckers that keep sending you home beat to shit, or you won’t come home at all.”

He understood. When he walked past his father, baseball bat in hand, he could have sworn he saw a glimmer of approval in his eyes. For a fleeting moment, hope overshadowed hate.

Hours later, he came home with one less tooth and news of the promise he had beaten out of his tormentors. They had sworn through bloodied lips that they would leave him alone from now on. The ringleader had begged him to stop hitting them, but he'd swung two more hits into the boy’s skull just to be sure.

Despite the limp in his step, he felt proud when he walked through the doors of his home. 

His father didn't look up from his newspaper, but the words he spoke were precious.

“Good man.” 

"See, sweetie?" His mother said. Anxiety wrinkled her delicate features; she had long ago given up hope of protecting her son from his father's violent ways. "You can make your own way. You're swell with that bat, honey. Why don't you join the baseball team?"

The outfielder was torn from his memories when the batter struck the ball with a loud, metallic ring that echoed throughout the field. Just his luck: the ball arched in the air and zoomed straight towards him. He gulped in air and darted forwards, dashing towards the ball like a predator in hot pursuit.

He slid on the ground in a forceful yet graceful move; his legs throbbed with pain, and dirt clogged his mouth, but he snatched the ball and earned his team a point.

The stadium erupted in triumphant cheers. Every one of his team’s fans cried his name in a chant.

 _Are you watching me now, ma?_ He wondered when he stood up. If only his dad were the one in the clouds, instead of on earth. Ma would have been so proud to see him succeed. She always pushed him towards sports and away from fighting. 

His team clumped together like magnets, each person alight with energy. He was glowing with pride and enjoying himself so much that he nearly missed his name being called over all the whoops.

One of the assistants ran towards him frantically, waving a phone in the air. "Sir, your wife's on the line!" 

"What's she want?" He asked gruffly. His wife was a respectful woman who knew her place; it was uncharacteristic of her to disturb him at work.

The assistant's face scrunched in worry. "Apparently she went into labor before the game," he said. "She wanted to call you to let you know your child was born."

"Oh, shit!" One of his teammates yelled. "What is this? Your second?"

"Yeah," he answered, breathless. He tried not to betray his excitement. 

Another slapped him on the back. "The hell are you waiting for? Go tell your woman what to name your kid."

"That's one hell of a congratulations, huh?" Another laughed.

"You kidding me?" The guy next to him said. "Who wants to come home to a baby? You can't celebrate with a screaming kid on the way."

"Shut up, Fernandez," he said, knocking him on the head. "I'm fuckin' thrilled." He pressed the phone to his ear and heard his wife's tired pants. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

"It's a girl," she murmured, sounding exhausted yet happy. "How was your game, honey?"

"It went well," he said. Suddenly his throat was tight with emotion. "How is she?"

"She's perfect." He heard the smile in her voice and imagined her clearly: her long, black hair was probably spread across the pillows, and her sweet face must be red with exhaustion. Was she wearing her favorite blue sweater? He wondered if his son was there, too, squeezing his mother's hand in support and peering at his newborn sister.

One of the guys on his team ran towards the crowd, cupped his hands over his mouth, and shouted, "Marty just had a kid! It's a girl!"

The crowd's cheers doubled in size until it sounded like a deafening roar. One person in the front of the crowd yelled, "What's her name?"

Marty flushed with pride, but he couldn't think of a name. He wondered what his ma would say if she knew her second grandchild had just been born. She would be so proud. _That was it!_

"Lisa!" He yelled back. He would name his daughter in honor of his poor, dead mother. She may not have had the courage to defend him, but she tried her best to steer him in the right direction. He'd make sure his daughter was a stronger woman than her namesake. 

A few members of the audience pierced the air with a thunderous chant. "Lisa! Lisa! Lisa!" 

The yeller turned back towards his friend with a grin. "You hear that?" He asked. "Your baby girl's got one hell of a welcome."

Another one of Marty's teammates threw his arm around his shoulders. "Born on a day you won the game for us? Sounds like your daughter's got a lot of good luck." 

Marty brightened at the idea. Lisa Armstrong would have a better childhood than he had, that's for sure.

He'd be one hell of a father.

* * *

** CHAPTER ONE **

* * *

“We need a volunteer to read the next paragraph."

Nearly every student craned their head away from the front of the class. Some examined their nails; other peered out of the windows to admire the dead grass and blistering landscape. Others doodled frantically, scribbling monsters they hoped could gobble up the teacher who threatened to call upon them. Only one student was brave enough to meet the teacher's piercing gaze. That single student raised her hand and smiled at the teacher, eager to be called upon.

Mr. Sands ignored that student. He wanted someone who didn't speak up very often. Someone who avoided eye contact at every opportunity. Someone with a lot of potential, but who for some reason lacked the courage to see it to fruition.

"Mr. Armstrong, would you please read the next paragraph?"

Brad instantly tensed up. Mr. Sands noticed that his face glistened with sweat; the young boy swallowed audibly and reached for his book. "Um..." He looked around frantically. The young boy next to him tried to whisper, but his voice reached the front of the room. "It's on page 27."

Brad nodded and began flipping through the pages.

"Mr. Armstrong, would you care you explain why you weren't reading along with us?"

Brad eyed the book in shame, humiliated. His brown eyes flickered towards his friend, who whispered, "It's the third paragraph, the one that starts with, 'For a second, perhaps two, he did not know where he was, was still in his sleep somewhere.'"

"Mr. Weeks, please don't help him. He needs to learn on his own."

Rick's pale blue eyes widened in embarrassment, and he looked down at the floor. 

Brad began reading, but his voice was stilted and unnatural from lack of practice. "For...a..sec-ond, perhaps two, he—"

Mr. Sands rubbed his temples. "That's enough, Mr. Armstrong. I'd like for you to answer my question."

Brad finally looked upwards, giving the teacher an eerily blank expression. Mr. Sands wondered how a kid so young could have such a great poker face. It would be impressive, if it weren't creepy for such a chubby-faced kid to appear so devoid of emotion. "What question, sir?" He asked quietly.

"I asked why you weren't reading along, Brad," the teacher explained, drumming his nails on his desk. Nothing annoyed him more than slow students, and he could never tell if Brad was being slow from genuine stupidity or deliberate recalcitrance. Either way, he was determined to stamp out any disrespect in his classroom.

"I..." Brad looked around the room. He noticed the expectant faces boring into him. Chris Columbo snickered at him from the front row, leering at Brad over the top of his sunglasses as the deer at his feet nibbled at the edge of his desk. Brad noticed the snobby, frustrated expressions on some of the girls near him, as well as the eye roll from a boy to his left. His hands felt clammy and his throat was dry. "I was hoping that if I didn't read along, you wouldn't call on me."

Christ barked in laughter, and, as always, the class laughed along with him. They always followed his lead, even when nothing funny had happened. He didn't treat outsiders very well, as the fading bruises on Brad's abdomen proved. 

The girl in the front who had raised her hands wasn't laughing, though. She watched Brad with wide eyes, full of sympathy. Anger bubbled in his stomach; he didn't want pity. He wasn't pathetic; he was just a slow reader who didn't like joining in. Every time he spoke up, he was made the butt of the joke. Of course he would do anything in his power to avoid the teacher's attention.

The teacher's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Armstrong, I do not appreciate your attitude," he said, trying to keep his tone even. His irritated expression reminded Brad of his father.

One of Chris's closest friends, Sergei, laughed at the movement. "Aww, look at Brad, flinching like a scaredy-cat."

"You gonna cry?" Tom, Chris's other friend, taunted.

"Check out his face!" Larry laughed. "He's _so_ going to cry!"

The girl in the front spoke up through the loud noise. "Mr. Sands, may I please read the next paragraph?"

"No, Joan. You've already read three paragraphs today. Wait your turn," he scolded her.

"B-but, Mr. Sands!" She eyed Brad, noticing his shiny eyes and rigid posture. "I really want to read some more. I, um, enjoy it!"

"Stop kissing ass, Joan," Chris said, leaning back in his seat and regarding her with a smirk.

Tom and Larry made kissing noises at her, and Sergei snickered. "Ass-kissing lardass," he whispered.

"Mr. Sands, didn’t you hear that?” Joan protested.

"You should have stayed quiet," Chris told her.

The girl's face reddened in anger. "Mister, can't you do something?"

"Can't you stay quiet?" The teacher demanded. A loud, _"Ooooooh!"_ rippled through the classroom, and Chris's gang burst into raucous laughter. Joan's mouth dropped in shock, and she looked down in shame.

Mr. Sands held his face in his hands, frustrated at himself for losing his temper at one of his best students. Yes, she was overeager, but at least she wasn't as patience-trying as some of the others, like Brad and Tony (who, for some reason, insisted on being called Sticky).

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just let that one out." 

Someone made a loud fart noise. 

By this time, Brad noticed that the attention had shifted away from him, so he sat down and watched the clock like a prisoner awaiting execution. Beside him, Rick looked pale and nervous. "Hey, I'm sorry, Rick," he told his best friend.

"Oh, uh, it's okay, friend-o," Rick said, trying to muster up some fake cheer. "Hey, at least school's almost over, right? Maybe we can play ball?" His pale, blue eyes were wide with hope.

"I'm sorry, Rick," he said. "I, uh...I lost my ball." Truthfully, he hadn't lost his ball; his dad had thrown it against his head so harshly that Brad fell into the wall and knocked his head against the edge of a table. Brad had been so upset and disgusted that he ran into the woods after his father passed out from drinking and threw it into the trees so he wouldn't be reminded of that moment again. Now he couldn’t find it. When Brad touched his hair, he could feel the faint echo of pain from the impact. There was no way he was telling Rick that, though.

Rick's face fell. "Aw, geez, Brad, how'd you lose the ball? You know my parents won't pay for another after what happened to the last one. How are we gonna play now?"

To avoid the question, Brad tapped the shoulder of the boy in front of him, who had been dozing throughout the debacle. "Hey, Sticky, wake up," he said. 

Sticky yawned and turned around. "What's up, guys?"

"Do you have any balls?" Rick asked.

Sticky's lips twisted into a shit-eating grin. "I've got two of 'em, Rick. Why do you ask? You wanna see?"

"Oh my god!" Rick slapped his palm against his forehead. "Sticky, I didn't mean that and you know it!"

"Your ma was shy at first, too," Sticky smirked. "But she warmed up eventually. Like mother like son, eh?"

"Sticky, that's gross!" Rick protested.

"But really, Sticky, do you have a ball?" Brad interrupted. 

The humor slipped off Sticky's face, and he leaned back in his chair, trying to play it cool. "Nah, man," he said. "You know my old man is allergic to fun. 'When I was your age, I played with rocks, and I liked it!' Yadda yadda."

"Maybe Cheeks will have a ball?" Rick asked hopefully. Cheeks was seated away from the three of them, directly behind a group of girls. He'd deliberately chosen that spot because he occasionally got a whiff of their shampoo or perfume. 

"Psst! Cheeks!" Sticky hissed. Cheeks wasn't listening, instead eyeing the giggling girls with paralyzed rapture. 

Sticky rolled his eyes and grabbed an eraser off Rick's desk. He ignored his friend's protests and tossed the eraser into the back of Cheeks’ head. Finally, he turned around, eyeing them in confusion.

 _Do you,_ Sticky mouthed, _have a ball?_

Cheeks raised an eyebrow and put two hands up to his chest, mimicking breasts. _Balls?_ he mouthed.

 _Yeah, balls,_ Sticky mouthed back at him. He leaned back and lifted his legs in the air, placing his hands near his crotch in a lewd reinterpretation of Cheeks's gesture.

"Why am I friends with you guys?" Rick groaned.

"'Cause we're fun to hang out with?" Brad joked. He was finally starting to relax a little. Nothing helped him calm down more than the reliable goofiness of Cheeks and Sticky. 

Rick didn't want to give up so soon. "I really want to play after school," he said. "I don't want to go home so soon... hey, doesn't Chris have an extra ball in his locker?"

"Yeah, so?" Brad asked.

"Well...he never uses it! I'm sure he wouldn't mind us borrowing it." Rick's pale blue eyes sparkled as he gradually sold himself on the idea. 

"I don't think we should do that," Brad said warily. He eyed Chris, who was standing at the front of the room, taunting the girl who had spoken up earlier. Brad didn't know her name, but now he was the one feeling sorry for her. It looked like Chris was giving her a rough time. Although Mr. Sands was standing right next to them, like a blind referee, he ignored all signs of foul play. 

"Aw, come on, Brad!" Rick protested. "It'll be fun! And, hey, I'll grab it myself. I know his locker combination, anyway. There's gotta be some perks to having the bottom locker, right?"

Brad's face scrunched up in doubt. "I don't know, Rick," he said. "I wouldn't do it if I were you."

"But—what if I do, Brad? You'll still play with me, right?" 

Brad sighed. It's not like he wanted to go home early, either. If they stayed far away from Chris and his friends' usual hangout, they should be safe. It was true that Chris had a lot of toys he brought to school, and that one red ball had long gone neglected in favor of newer toys his family bought for him. If it made Rick happy, it was worth the risk.

"Sure," he said finally.

"Aw, sweet!" The sight of his anxious friend smiling calmed Brad's nerves. "Thanks, man."

"Sure thing," Brad said, but he couldn't hide the strain in his smile.

Rick gave him a friendly nudge with his elbow. "Hey, what's the worst that could happen?"

* * *

"You little thief."

Rick doubled over as Chris buried his fist in his stomach. Sergei and Larry trapped him in from both sides, punching his arms until he staggered.

"Stop!" Brad ran forwards as Tom threw an uppercut into Rick's chin. Brad gripped the old, unused basketball in his arms. Chris and his gang must have seen him chasing it after Cheeks accidentally threw the ball off-court. Bile built in his throat as it always did when he sensed a fight about to go on.

He tried to remember his grandpa's words: "Every fight is a learning opportunity, so never be afraid to fight for what you think is right." It had been many years since he'd spoken to his grandpa, but he tried to honor his memory by practicing the Armstrong family style and defending his friends. He just wished it weren't so painful.

"Leave him alone!" Brad yelled. He noticed Sticky and Cheeks whimpering by the goal post, peppered in bruises. 

"Shut up, Brad!" Chris yelled. "He stole our ball!" To prove his point, he punched Rick in the mouth with so much force that he collapsed onto the floor of the court and sobbed in pain.

Brad took a few deep breaths and held out the ball towards Chris. The two of them locked eyes. Sadism gleamed in the black pits before him. 

Brad took a deep breath and looked down at his crying friend. Rick was far too soft; he had no experience taking a beating. If anyone stood a chance against them, it was Brad. "I stole it," he lied. "Rick didn't do anything."

The beady eyes widened in surprise. "What?" Chris spluttered. He looked around at his friends before glaring at Brad, his face heavy with hate. 

"You little bitch!" He jumped forwards and launched a punch into Brad's face. Brad tried to avoid it, but he lost his balance and wound up feeling the impact against his cheek. Sergei and Tom threw a barrage of harsh strikes against his face. Suddenly, Brad's mind went blank and he forgot his grandpa's voice. When Larry jabbed him in the eye, he yelped in pain, and Chris launched his foot into Brad's diaphragm, emptying all the air in Brad's lungs and sending him falling to the ground besides Rick.

His eyes closed, and he struggled as the four boys attacked him with sharp and painful kicks all over his body. Finally, they stopped, but Brad couldn't find his breath no matter how hard he tried.

Chris looked down at him with pure disgust. His face was shiny with sweat, and he panted heavily, but the ball he never used was safe in his arms. He shook his head. "Idiots...." he grunted. Brad's eyes lowered onto the filthy pavement, and he tried to breathe evenly. He was faintly aware of blood trickling down his temple and the throbbing pain that blurred the world.

"Let's go, guys," Chris said. Brad tensed up, expecting an extra kick as a sign of dominance, but the boys marched off. Brad almost sighed in relief, but the pain sobered him up. He slowly found his feet and wobbled when he stood.

Rick was on all fours, looking up at him with wet, hopeless eyes. Brad was ashamed to see the crimson blood bruising his pale face; if only he had gotten there sooner, he could have saved his best friend the pain. When their faces met, Rick's lips quivered in shame, and his head fell so his voice bounced against the pavement. "Thanks, Brad," he croaked. 

Cheeks and Sticky hugged their knees, shocked into silence. 

Brad's hand clutched his bleeding temple. It hurt so badly that his vision went white if his fingers drifted to the point of impact. He swallowed hard and stumbled towards his friends.

"I'm sorry," Rick whispered. "You didn't have to cover for me." 

Cheeks looked up at him with fear-stricken eyes. "I'm sorry, Brad."

Sticky was dead silent, and his eyes were as blank as a statue's. Brad knew from experience that it would take a while before Sticky could be coaxed into the waking world.

There would be no more playing today. As he walked onward, he felt the wind brush against his exposed stomach. Just looking down hurt, and fear overshadowed pain when he realized yet another shirt had been ravaged in a fight.

Dad — no, Marty — would not be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed chapter 1 of "LISA: The Faithful"! As you can tell from the summary, this story follows Brad and Lisa's lives, which will go down drastically different paths than they did in canon. 
> 
> I hope you'll stick with me as the story goes down its long and twisty path... and if you'd like to share your thoughts, I always appreciate hearing from readers in the comment section.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Joan I

Joan knew it was time to go home when she had to squint to see her homework.

She looked outside the library window and, sure enough, the September sun was slipping from its spot in the sky, shifting the atmosphere from a deep blue to a bright blood orange. Soon the sun would sink behind the horizon and the librarian would chase her out for closing time. If Joan weren't careful, she’d be subject to another lecture about going outside and making friends.

The last thing she wanted to do was alienate the librarian; he was one of the few adults who treated her with a measure of respect. The rudeness and condescension from adults was the worst part about being reborn with all her former memories intact: Mentally she was an adult, but the world treated her like a precocious little kid who knew nothing. Then the little kids around her tried her patience day after day. The feeling was mutual: her classmates regarded her as weird and hard to play with, and Joan couldn't blame them, since she saw them as immature children (which, to be fair, they were).

As a fellow adult, Mr. Sands was her intellectual equal, but he spoke to her with such a pompous air of superiority that it made her want to scream. Nobody ever listened to her. The only adults she got along with were the librarian and a handful of teachers who’d been charmed by her interest in science. But she wasn't learning for the sake of learning; she was studying the geology of Olathe, trying to understand how the White Flash ever happened. She was infuriated by her inability to do anything: Sure, Brad was young, and the Flash occurred when he was an adult, but if there was one thing her past life taught her, it was that time passed by quickly. All her knowledge of the future was a burden, made more painful by the fact that she couldn't confide in anyone, lest she be hauled away to a mental institution.

 _They wouldn’t really lock up a child, right?_ She wondered as she clutched her backpack and aimlessly kicked a rock. _Then again, considering how callous everyone here is, I wouldn’t be surprised._

_Maybe I can change that?_

Once she took a few steps into the hot evening air, she heard wet whacks and shouts of pain coming from the basketball court. She ran towards the noise, determined to halt a fight if she found it, even though her child’s body was far too weak to defend itself.

Chris Columbo and his gang swaggered towards her like a line of soldiers heading home from a one-sided massacre. Bile burned in the back of her throat. In her short time in Olathe, this group of boys had established themselves as the most despicable kids she’d ever met: There was Sergei, shirtless and swaggering with a nasty smirk; Tom, with poorly-dyed, piss-yellow hair that shot out of his skull like a pineapple; and the lackadaisical Larry, whose grotesque bowl cut hid his eyes and emphasized his shit-eating grin.

Finally, her eyes landed on Chris, or, more accurately, his mohawk. She always tried to avoid the eyesore, but it was like trying not to look at a car crash.

A bloody ball brushed against the sneering skull of Chris's T-shirt. Joan's lips parted in a question, but a sharp voice cut her off: "Sup, fatass?" Disgusted, Joan sidestepped the crew, only to stumble as a shoulder crashed into her arm. The boys turned around to flash her malicious grins — or even a stuck-out tongue, in the childish Larry's case — and they snickered as though they’d just told a hilarious joke.

 _Kids weren’t this terrible back when I was in middle school,_ she thought, glaring at their receding backs. _Then again, maybe I blocked out the memories…_

“I’m sorry, Brad,” a quiet voice whispered. “You didn’t have to stick up for me.”

A few yards ahead, four battered figures slumped onto the basketball court's filthy asphalt. Two of the strangest kids in the class, Cheeks Gaywood and Tony "Sticky" Angoneli, leaned against the hoop's pole. Tony's neck was bent at an unnatural angle, exposing his botched buzzcut. The chubby, blond Cheeks clutched his knees to his chest with a thousand-yard stare. Before them, Rick was on his hands and knees, trembling.

Then Brad struggled to his feet, dripping blood and looking like he’d just been mauled.

The scene was so disturbing yet similar that Joan slapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a scream.

_This was where it all began._

Her throat was suddenly dry. Before anyone could see her, she slid behind a tree so no one could see her shaking.

With every breath that shuddered out of her lungs, she tried to calm down and focus on the facts. _This is really happening._ Gasp. _This isn’t a dream._ Exhale. _I’m actually a part of this._ Shiver. _I need to do something._

A shuddering breath tumbled out of her lips, and Joan stood up on wobbly legs. By now, Brad had staggered a few yards off, and his remaining friends muttered among themselves.

“Sticky? Rick?” Cheeks was murmuring, sounding completely defeated. “Are you okay?”

“I wish he hadn’t done that.” Rick’s voice was low and trembly, typical of his nervous temperament. Yet there was a hard edge to his little voice, a quiet anger he wasn’t confident enough to fully express—or old enough to completely hide. “He should have butted out of it. I stole it. It was my fault.”

Sticky’s sigh was long and drawn-out. “He just wanted to protect you, Rick. You know your parents would flip if they saw you as busted up as Brad is.”

“But I’m still bleeding! ” Rick’s voice cracked with emotion. “My mom’s still gonna yell at me! And thanks to Brad stepping in, he’s even more hurt than I am. There was no need for us both to get hurt.”

“Easy, Rick.” Sticky’s voice was as placid as a still lake. “No need to get worked up. Let’s just head to the nurse’s office and go home.”

Cheeks’ voice was quiet and hesitant. “Um, shouldn’t Brad go with us? He was busted up way worse than we were…”

Sticky and Rick shared an awkward look. “Um…” Rick murmured. “He doesn’t go to the nurse’s office.”

“Huh? Why not?”

“The last time he went to the nurse’s office, it was ’cause he had a black eye,” Sticky explained. “The next day, he had two.”

“I don’t get it,” Cheeks said.

Rick sighed. “It means that Brad doesn’t want any help.”

The chubby blond spoke up again, but Sticky cut him off. “That’s enough for now, guys. Let’s get movin’.”

There was shuffling, and the thumping of feet across pavement, but Joan was frozen in place, her thoughts in a whirlwind. Her eyes were blank, trained on the grass, and she faintly registered the footsteps that grew louder and louder until they finally stopped.

Rick’s arms were slung over each of his friends’ shoulders; Cheeks stood on his other side, farthest away from Joan, while Sticky was close enough to look down at her with a withering scowl. “Did you enjoy the show?”

Shock shot through her system. “No!” She yelled, stress staining her voice, shaking her head violently.

But his accusatory eyes filled her with regret nonetheless—what if she could have intervened, stopped this from happening, proven that she could have changed the future?

His anger, combined with her shame, propelled Joan to bolt after Brad’s figure in the distance. Faint cries of protest shot against her eardrums, but determination drove her forward.

Doubt slowed her footsteps the closer she came to Brad’s bloodied back. He was tame enough in the few times she’d spoken to him, but he was always getting into fights, and Joan knew for certain that he was an unstable adult.

When she tapped his shoulder, he flinched like she burned him, whipping around with raised fists. At the sight of her chubby face and giant glasses, he sighed. “What do you want?”

The importance of this moment weighed heavily on Joan’s shoulders. _I must be here for a reason,_ she thought. _Even if I can’t stop the White Flash, I should at least prevent what comes next._ “I want to help you—”

His eyes darkened. “I don’t need your help."

With newfound boldness, Joan touched his shoulder to stop him from leaving. He stiffened, and Joan mentally kicked herself — _Of course physical contact bothers him; how long has it been since someone touched him without wanting to hurt him?_ — but she pushed her luck anyway. “I saw you help your friends. That was really brave.” She kept her voice low and soft to seem nonthreatening. “I could get you an extra shirt, if you like.”

A pained sound struggled in Brad’s throat, and Joan’s heart tightened in sympathy as she watched his eyes flicker in confusion. Finally, the little boy shook his head, averting his gaze. “Thanks, but I don't want to wear a girly shirt.”

Normally, Joan would let it be—she didn’t want to take any chances with the Joy addict who tore through Olathe, but it was so hard to think of the adult he would become when this little boy stood before her. He was too young and innocent to hide his fear.

Already she could see what was to come: a bottle crashing into a tiny skull, a boy’s facade shattering into a tidal wave of tears. _I won't let that happen,_ she thought fiercely.

“I have normal shirts you can wear,” she insisted, her squeaky voice rising with authority. “It’s no trouble at all, really. I’ll even help you clean up. It’ll be quick, I promise. I have a shirt that looks just like yours. Your dad won’t even be able to tell the difference!”

Brad’s eyes widened at the mention of his father, but said nothing. Joan stood there in tense silence, sweating under the dying sun.

As if in deep thought, Brad looked down and sighed, his face looking far too somber for his young age.

Then he glanced at her with pursed lips, and gave a tentative nod. It wasn’t a smile, but she would take it.

“Thanks, Brad!”

As they set off towards her house, she fought the urge to burst into a jig. So much of this new life felt like a fever dream, but now, for the very first time since she’d woken up in a baby’s body with full memories of her past, Joan Chambers felt as though things would be all right.

Most of the small town was lovely this time of year. Bright green and full of flowers, it could have been enchanting to a more optimistic pair, yet Joan’s enjoyment of the scenery was secondary. All she cared about was building this tentative friendship, while Brad was too focused on seeing clearly through his bloody vision to appreciate the flowers.

On the way, they passed a tall, strangely-dressed man. He wore a deep red suit, and long black hair flowed down his shoulders. With his immaculate outfit and elegant features, he was obviously a foreigner, yet something in the back of Joan’s mind told her he was meant to be here. 

“Um, hello.” She gave him a curt nod of respect as they passed, but behind his sunglasses, beady black eyes flickered over the scenery.

“Ah, yes, Olathe...this will work well…”

 _Weirdo,_ she thought disdainfully, yet doubt niggled at the back of her mind. Later on, she’d try to remember this guy, but for now, all of her focus was on helping her bleeding classmate.

After they passed, Joan’s small white house with a navy trim came into view. “We’re here!” The house keys clanked in her frustratingly tiny fingers.

“Nice garden,” Brad muttered, looking at the four bug-eyed gnomes decorated throughout the flower patches. After resting on a pink carnation, a monarch butterfly took off into the sky before fluttering down on the yellow roses climbing around the property's white picket fence. Closer to the house, a red shovel leaned against the backyard gate, next to a BEWARE OF DOG sign that failed to convey how fat and harmless the family dachshund really was.

“Thanks,” she said, eyeing her father’s prized front yard. “After you!”

Once Brad ambled through the open door, he gawked at the living room while Joan slid the lock into place.

“Welcome to my house,” Joan said with as much cheer as she could muster, trying to draw Brad out of his shell.

Brad didn’t know what to say, so she led him down the hall filled with her dad’s paintings of farm animals and scenery. Next to the answering machine stood a small statue of a chicken, complete with colorful paint and a big, cartoonish smile.

When they reached the kitchen, Brad gaped at the refrigerator.

“It’s nice, huh?”

“It’s so clean,” he breathed.

Joan nodded, remembering the filthy house she’d never seen in person. They fell into silence as Joan rifled through the house in search of the first-aid kit. “Here, why don’t you sit down while I grab a cloth for you?”

By the time Joan found what she needed, Brad looked completely lost. Her dachshund had waddled into the kitchen and jumped up on the stool legs of Brad’s chair, begging for scraps.

“Sorry about this,” Joan said, leaning towards Brad with a wet towel in her hands. When she pressed it against the torn flesh of his arm, Brad hissed. “I’m sorry, but we need to clean it before I can bandage it.”

“No!” His voice was loud and firm. “I can’t have bandages. If my dad sees—”

“What’s his problem with bandages?” Incredulity leaked out of her voice. “How are you going to get better?”

“He thinks I’m weak,” Brad whispered. “It’ll make him mad.”

“How can he blame you for getting beat up by a group of kids?” Joan asked. “Even a strong fighter couldn’t hold his own against four people.”

Brad shrugged, looking down at the whining dog, and Joan was unable to hold her tongue: “Is that why you don’t go to the nurse’s office?”

Anger flashed in his brown eyes, and he averted his gaze to the jumping dog. His cheeks burned red. A tense moment passed before Joan finally shoved the kit into his hands. 

“I’m giving this to you, since you should still have ointment and bandages, no matter what your dad says. You need to take care of yourself so it doesn’t get even worse. I mean, you could get an infection… I don’t see why you should suffer for his reputation.” Before Brad could argue, she shook her head. “Keep it. I’m gonna go grab a shirt while you clean up and put some ointment on.”

“Um, but what about… what’s his name?”

Joan chuckled. “Blimpy. Or Blimpy the Destroyer, as we call him.”

“What does he destroy?”

“Furniture, for the most part. And garbage, if we don’t put something heavy over the lid.”

Brad eyed Blimpy with renewed interest as he cleaned up his injuries. Ointment and water went to the wounds on his face and arms, but on areas that would be hidden, such as his stomach, he added bandages no one would see.

As she walked up the stairs, which was always agonizingly long thanks to her tiny legs, Joan imagined her heart as a deflated balloon. Perhaps the key to feeling full was to pump air into the balloon by proving she was alive and this world was real. Acts like this, helping someone, going out of her way to create little changes for the better, inspired her to persevere.

 _Who knows how much I can accomplish?_ Joan eyed the world map lying above her bed, in which the country of Olathe was bubbled in a bright red circle next to her drawings of mushroom clouds and question marks.

 _I could even save the world_. Red cotton felt soft and sweet beneath her fingers, although maybe it seemed so nice was because she was parting with it. Still, with a little pocket over the heart and a deep crimson hue, it looked like just the kind of shirt a carefree kid would wear. 

_But first, I need to see if I can save my friend._ With a resolute thump, the cabinet slid shut. A smudged mirror perched atop the dresser contained a bizarre reflection Joan still struggled to feel comfortable with. Thick, rusty hair hung down her cheeks in tight braids with wild strands of hair sticking out, framing a long face that was as white as a vampire. Wide eyes, as dark as ground-up espresso beans, were framed by black, thick-rimmed glasses that seemed to swallow her features. Despite her chubby cheeks and youthful looks, nervousness clawed at her features, giving her a permanent look of anxiety.

She still couldn’t get used to this reflection. Every time, she expected to see her old face from her past life. Every time, she looked horrendously wrong. 

Two tiny hands rubbed at her temples. _Remember that there are those who have it worse than I do_ , she thought _. One of them’s downstairs._

Every time Joan walked down the stairs, she hit a particular step that groaned like a man who’d been kicked in the head. At the sound, the refrigerator door slammed shut and Brad scampered back to the sink.

“I just wanted some water!” He defended himself, although Joan hadn’t said a thing.

“You can eat or drink if you’d like.”

“...Really?”

“Yeah. Help herself.”

Suspiciously, Brad took some bread and cheese from the kitchen, chewing with hunched shoulders that made him look like a defensive animal. Joan leaned against the kitchen doorway, acting calm to make it crystal clear he’d done nothing wrong.

Eventually, he seemed to relax. Joan wound up helping him with a few spots he’d missed. There was a huge tear in the back of his shirt from where the boys had kicked him down earlier. This time, Brad didn’t hiss in pain; he sat as still as a statue, except for the chewing and swallowing. As if he hadn’t eaten anything all day, he inhaled the food he’d taken, leaving no crumbs for the puppy at his feet. A little head pat from Brad put an end to Blimpy’s whining.

When they were finished, the soft red shirt flew into Brad’s hands. “Here’s your shirt, by the way.”

He hesitated, holding it out before him. “I...don’t have anything to give to you,” he murmured.

"It’s okay,” she assured him. “It’s a gift. I don’t need anything back.”

Although he looked doubtful, Brad nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He switched into his red shirt, holding the old, bloody rags in a dirty ball. “I should go now.”

“You can just throw that away, you know.” Joan reached for it, but he shook his head.

“I'll keep it as a back-up,” he muttered.

Joan nodded. “All right, then. I’ll walk you back.”

“But—”

“Let’s head out!” She insisted. “Blimpy needs a walk anyway.”

Brad looked away, his features pained. “I don’t think that would be for the best.”

“We could talk some more. And it would make Blimpy so happy.” She wouldn’t budge. 

By now, the strange man examining the town was long gone, but the sun was still high enough to shine over the white flowers speckled throughout the fields. Brad was still limping, though he didn’t look as close to fainting as he did earlier, and all his wounds seemed cleaned up. His little hand pressed against his struck temple, but that pain should go away soon. The other hand held the first aid kit behind his back, as though he were afraid of being seen with it.

 _He's probably afraid of what Marty would do,_ Joan thought, her stomach twisting at the thought.

The closer they got to the edge of town, the more Brad’s face fell.

Far beyond the rest of the neighborhood stood a dilapidated house with peeling white paint and a tattered lawn filled with bottles. Brad’s lips set into a hard line once they reached his decrepit home. He looked at her with a defensive expression, ready to say something.

“It was great hanging out with you today,” Joan cut in, trying to sound as light-hearted as possible. “See you tomorrow?”

A flash of relief lit up his eyes. Brad gave her a curt nod before heading towards the house, his steps as slow as if he were walking through a tar pit. Without a backward glance, he stepped into the house, swallowed up by the darkness within.

Joan scampered up to the porch and pressed her ear against the door.

Distorted laughter from the TV vibrated against her eardrums, but she didn't hear the grotesque crash of a glass bottle against a child's temple.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she retreated to the edge of the property. Yet something tethered her feet to the ground. There was a great evil within, but she had no clue how to combat it. All she knew was that this house of horrors was where it all started, and she needed to find a way to save the Armstrong kids. Right now, though, all she could do was watch the property, eyes wide and heart racing.

Then the upstairs window swished open, and a round, boyish face peeked out.

Brad squinted at her, confused, but when she held up a hand to wave, he slowly waved back.

The faintest ghost of a smile played at his lips, and Joan grinned in response.

In the future, once they were closer friends, she would ask to see his sister. There was no way in hell she’d let Lisa suffer at Marty’s hands.


	3. Brad II

Dad was disappearing again.

His garish shirt stank of days-old filth. Alcohol oozed from every pore. Lisa had made him angry again, with her endless crying in the night, and when Brad went to quiet her down, he found dad already in the room, shaking her so hard her head jerked back and forth.

“Dad, stop! You’ll hurt her!”

“Get back to bed or I’ll do a lot worse to you.”

Lisa’s little head slumped to the side. Brad knew she was too young for this treatment; he knew mom would have screamed against it and gotten slapped, but mom had been brave and now she was dead while Brad breathed, so he closed the door like a coward and retreated to his bed, where shame kept him awake.

Dad’s heavy footsteps grew louder, and Brad trembled. His door creaked open, and Brad threw the covers over his head. _Don’t come in. Don’t come in,_ he prayed, and when the door slid shut, he sighed in relief, hoping the next morning would be more peaceful.

He was wrong. 

“Where’s your sister?”

Brad flinched at the sound of dad’s rough voice. He thought he had sneaked down the stairs undetected. “I-I think she’s upstairs, sir.”

“ _W-well,_ ” dad mocked, “go fucking get her. You’re taking care of her today.”

It was Sunday, and Brad was supposed to go to Rick’s house and play. He bristled in anger but breathed deeply instead. “Where are you going?”

Dad paused in his search for his shoes, turning a cold, empty stare towards his son. His eyes were invisible, devoured by his huge, black sunglasses, but Brad knew his beady eyes were angry. He could tell by the set of dad’s shoulders, the stiffness of his jaw. “None of your fucking business.” Which is what he always said before disappearing for days. 

Dad jerked his arm upwards, pointing towards the ceiling. “Take care of it.”

 _It._ Dad always forgot Lisa’s name when he went off on a bender. He always acted like more of an asshole than usual, smacking Brad around, calling Lisa names, cursing their mother for leaving. 

There were so many things Brad wanted to say. _Fuck you, dad,_ he thought. _I wish you were the one who died instead of mom. I hope you get what you deserve and get shot or stabbed so you finally shut up_. But dad would probably kill him for saying that, and then there would be nobody to protect Lisa. “Yes, sir.”

After dad left, Lisa started crying. Brad went upstairs and nearly gagged at the smell. She’d soiled herself during the night; it must have been why she was crying. Now there was a huge mess in her crib and Brad had no idea what to do with her.

What did mom do?

She had a special way of removing Lisa’s diapers, but Brad couldn’t remember. He tugged on her diaper, too roughly because Lisa cried louder, before finally breaking it open. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, trying to hold his breath at the smell. He ran to throw the diaper away and picked her up. The sheets were sticky and brown, but Lisa’s mess was all over her little legs as well. 

He decided to clean Lisa first, then go for the sheets. Mom always tried to take care of Lisa first.

There was nothing clean in her tiny room, so Brad went to the downstairs bathroom and ran some lukewarm water in the sink. Lisa struggled in his arms, and Brad prayed that her mess wouldn’t stain his new shirt. Gently, he held Lisa under the water, which ran down her legs and privates to carry away some of the grossness. 

_I’m probably doing something wrong,_ Brad thought. But Lisa seemed to like it: She giggled softly and moved her chubby hands to play with the running water. Even though he was mad that he had to take care of her, Brad couldn’t help but smile. Lisa was so sweet when she wasn’t crying, and her eyes were the same light blue color mom had. He always wished he’d taken after mom, instead of inheriting dad’s beady, dark brown eyes. But maybe it was best that Lisa took after her, because now he could see traces of mom whenever he looked at her.

Thinking about mom snatched the smile away. Now that Lisa’s mess was down in the pipes, Brad closed the drain, ran warm water, and left Lisa to relax while he cleaned, though she slipped and cried when her head hit the side of the sink. “Sorry, Lisa,” he said, and she seemed to understand, quieting down and looking at him curiously.

Brad went back to her room to strip the sheets off her bed. They reeked, but he bundled them up and went back to the bathroom, throwing the sheets into the bathtub. Lisa’s big eyes followed his movements: First he turned the faucet, then he moved the sheets under the water, and then he gagged and turned away as the brown mess started to run down the bath drain. 

Lisa giggled at Brad’s face, and he couldn’t help but smile. He probably _did_ look a little funny, scrambling around trying to clean after a baby. Once again, he turned around to continue rinsing the sheets.

Then he heard Lisa scream.

He found her submerged in the still-running sink, flailing under the water. Brad swore and jumped to turn off the sink faucet, plucking her up and crying in relief when she coughed and gasped in a breath of air. Lisa’s bright eyes were full of fear, but she was breathing again, so Brad held her tightly and thanked God she was all right.

 _I’m such a worthless shit kid,_ he thought. How could he have been so stupid? Why didn’t he turn the sink off to make sure she didn’t drown? _I almost killed her._

“There, there,” he murmured, petting her wet hair. “It’s okay.”

He patted her dry and wrapped her in a small towel, setting her down on the toilet seat as he wrung the sheets dry. Now they were stained brown, but it didn’t smell as bad and the worst of it was gone, so he hung them over the shower bar and prayed for the best.

Lisa made strange little mumbling sounds when he searched her room for swaddling clothes. Since the bed was stripped of sheets and the floor was filthy, he carried her to his room instead, setting her down on his bed as he tried to wrap her in clean clothes.

It was a disaster.

He couldn’t figure out how to properly fold her; it kept looking strange, not at all how mom used to do it. Finally, he wrapped the soft cloth from her shoulders to her feet, but her tiny head with its small tuft of black hair was exposed. 

_God, I wish mom were here to help me,_ he thought. But she was long-gone, and with her all of dad’s smiles died.

Brad looked out the window. The sky was as clear and blue as a robin’s egg. There wasn’t a single cloud: just an endless, calming expanse of blue. It was a perfect day.

The sky was dark and damp the day of mom’s funeral. 

If Brad closes his eyes and thinks hard enough, he can recall the light pitter-patter of rain against the roof and the dread settling down upon his shoulders.

Dad was on his hands and knees, his torso slumped over the casket, his meaty hands swiping at his sopping face. He sobbed like an animal, his voice high-pitched and horrifying, blubbering about God and apologies and how he wished he’d treated her better.

Brad didn’t know what to do. Lisa struggled in his arms, her big, blue eyes confused and distressed. She reached for him, but Brad wasn’t in the mood to play. He couldn’t move. 

Brad felt like he was outside of his body, watching the scene from the window: his father, on his knees and banging the casket, and himself, standing a few feet behind, holding Lisa but staring blankly ahead. 

All in an empty room. 

_How is it that no one else came?_

A sad gurgle spilled from Lisa’s lips when he brushed his knuckle against her chubby cheeks. 

She was too innocent to know what she’d done, how mom had gone crazy after her birth. Mom was a completely different person, quiet and miserable, all because Lisa had taken the happiness away. “Sometimes, when babies are born, their mothers go a little crazy because of their hormones,” grandpa had explained, earlier in the day, before dad punched him in the face, chased him out of the church and screamed that he’d never see his grandkids again. 

Brad didn’t understand it, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t feel a lick of anger towards Lisa. She was just a baby. 

But he couldn’t feel sad, either.

When he came home from school to find mom writhing on the bathroom floor, face slick with sweat and contorted in pain, terror paralyzed him. Dad wasn’t paralyzed, though: He went insane.

It was the first time dad had ever been afraid, and it was the first time dad had ever hit him.

“Get the fuck out of the way!” Dad roared, loud enough to make Brad freeze. When he didn’t move, dad pushed him away so hard he fell and hit his head.

Even as pain shot up his spine, Brad didn’t blame his dad. He was only trying to get to mom, after all.

“Clean up this mess,” dad snapped, scooping mom up and running towards the door. She wasn’t moving. It was like all the air had slipped out of her, and she was as empty as a deflated balloon.

“Okay, dad.”

“And look after your sister!” Marty yelled from the front door.

“Okay, dad.”

Their ancient car groaned to life, and mom’s body hit the dashboard when dad slammed the pedal and the car zoomed out of the driveway and down the road. A thick trail of smoke burst from the exhaust pipe and chased them down the horizon, before the car faded from Brad’s sight.

Then it was just him and his screaming sister upstairs. 

He wandered around the house, picked up the pill bottle and tidied things up as best he could with an absent mind. Lisa cried against his chest as he peered out his bedroom window, praying for mom to come home.

They waited for hours, until dad returned — but soon Brad realized that it wasn’t really his dad, but a monster wearing his face. When they went home after the funeral, Brad did something that made dad grab his hair and throw him to the ground. Dad punched him until he blacked out, and when he woke up in bed, every inch of his body throbbed in pain.

Still he couldn’t believe it. _It must be a dream_ , he thought, aching so badly he couldn’t clasp his hands in prayer. Instead, he thought very hard, hoping God could hear him. _God, please bring my mom back. Make her come home and make dad come home too. Please, make it all a dream. Please make me wake up next morning to see mom here and dad happy._

He prayed every night, until Marty beat the faith out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit disheartening, but I wanted to spend some time with Brad alone, to get a better sense of his childhood. When I first played "The Painful," the Marty flashback that held Lisa and said "Take care of it" really stuck out to me. I couldn't stop thinking about how messed up that was: How could he expect a little kid with no experience to take good care of a baby?? Obviously Brad does his best, but no one's perfect and mistakes are made, as we see here.


	4. Brad III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favorite chapters to write! Normally I don't update so quickly, but last chapter ended on such a sad note, I wanted to put this up sooner rather than later. Here we get to see more of Brad's Boys: Rick, Sticky and Cheeks... but mostly the former two, since Cheeks is basically an enigma in canon.

The next morning, dad still wasn't home, and Rick wouldn't meet his eyes.

Brad had been late for school after struggling to change Lisa's diaper, feeding her from the bottle, and giving her a quick kiss and an apology before running out the door. Her curious little eyes followed him out of the room, but she didn't make a sound. 

Now, sitting in class, Brad couldn't focus over the sickening suspicion that Lisa may be getting used to this. It wasn't normal for a baby to be alone all day, and unless dad came home from his bender—likely drunk out of his mind and in no place to care for her—then Lisa was probably going to go hungry and wet herself. Then she'd be in her own disgusting mess, starving and filthy and helpless, sobbing all day long for her big brother.

It was nerve-wracking and terrible to think about, and now, on top of Lisa, Brad had to worry about Rick as well.

Words about literature and critical analysis droned like thrashing waves in his ear. Instead of listening to the lecture, Brad found himself gazing at his best friend, who scribbled down notes in his neat, blue notebook.

"Mr. Weeks!"

The teacher's voice was so sharp that even sleepy Sticky, who always slumped in his seat ahead of Brad, jerked to attention. 

Rick's head whipped up like a prairie dog spotting a wolf. "Um, yes, sir?" He stammered. Rows of children turned to face him, their eyes hungry for the teacher's pet to be put in his place.

"Are you paying attention?" The tall teacher eyed Rick suspiciously. Normally Rick's eyes were trained on Mr. Sands throughout all his endless speeches about meaningless stuff, but this was the first time his head was down, and now, he was paying for it. _Is it because he didn't want to risk meeting my eye?_ Brad wondered. _What did I do to make him so mad?_

Rick cleared his throat and twitched his lips in a ghost of a smile. "Yes, sir. I just wanted to... make sure I remembered what you were saying."

Now Mr. Sands tilted his head and put a hand on his hip. "And why did you want to remember the story of how I came to love literature?"

Brad stifled a scoff. _That's_ what he was ranting about for so long? How was that relevant to the book they were reading at all? He was probably just wasting their time so he could enjoy the sound of his own voice.

He and the rest of the staff had been on edge all week, ever since the new science teacher arrived, a tall, stylish, and arrogant man who intimidated the adults and impressed the kids. Even Joan stammered in his presence. Maybe Mr. Sands was feeling insecure about the new teacher who was far more popular with his students; maybe he was taking out that frustration on the kids. His choice to mistreat _Rick_ , of all people, got Brad’s blood boiling.

Rick swallowed, a deer in headlights. "I... thought it might be on the test?"

The teacher smirked. "You thought it might be on the test. Okay. And when have my personal musings ever been on any reading comprehension test, Mr. Weeks?"

"Uhh..." Rick's hands covered the pages in his journal, and it occurred to Brad that maybe he hadn't been note-taking at all. From the bits of paper not covered by Rick’s fingers, it looked like he’d been drawing rather than writing. "It... seemed... important?" His voice broke on the last word.

Sensing weakness, Mr. Sands stepped forward—only to be stopped by a loud, "A-hem."

From the front row, Joan sat with her raised arm as stiff as a soldier's salute. "Sir, I think Rick has a point," she said, her chubby face the picture of determination. "Your speech about finding your love of literature in the jungle of degree options correlates to the story of the protagonist finding his way through the forest. Both of you went through the hero's journey in order to find your elixir. For him, it was freedom; for you, it was passion."

Now the heads of the classroom swung from Rick to Joan. Now their faces switched from anticipatory bloodlust to shared bewilderment. 

A dropped jaw was Mr. Sands' first response, before he finally seemed to reel his brain back from outer space and spluttered, "It's correlates _with_ , not correlates _to_." He stumbled backwards, gave her a suspicious look, and shook his head. Brad could have sworn he muttered, _"These damn kids,"_ before returning to his arrogant lecture, subjecting them again to some personal story that wouldn't help them on the next test.

Brad only understood one out of every ten words Joan had said, but he was glad it got Rick out of the hot seat. He glanced back at the paper, finding that Rick had resumed scribbling angry circles all over the lines of his notebook. Pen scraped into the pages, creating harsh and thick marks, with no rhyme or reason. Rick looked angry now, his face pale and his eyes bulging.

It was unnerving; Rick never got like this. Brad watched him until he realized Sticky was whispering something. "...I can't believe it," he was saying.

Brad leaned forward in his seat. "What did you say?"

Sticky glanced over his shoulder. "I'm saying, I can't believe that girl. Who talks like that? Who is she trying to impress? I wish she would just _shut up!_ "

The disgust in his voice took Brad by surprise. "Who are you talking about?" 

"Joan!" Sticky said the name like it was a curse.

"She's not so bad," Brad whispered back.

Sticky gaped at him as though he were an alien. Then he quickly turned back around without a word. _What did I do now?_ Brad thought. _Why are my friends acting so weird?_ He glanced over at Cheeks. Luckily, he looked normal, not ripping his notebook apart with angry circles or seething at another student. Good old reliable Cheeks. You never had to guess with him.

A ball of paper tumbled onto Brad's desk. Brad unrolled it to see a message written in Sticky’s signature chicken scratch. " _She is that bad,_" it wrote, the dark underline thick with emphasis. " _Yesterday after school she watched us getting beat up. Like it was a show for her."_

Brad looked at the teacher, careful to check that he wasn't being watched as he opened his pen cap and wrote a quick note back. When Mr. Sands turned his back to write something on the board, he threw the wadded-up response over Sticky's shoulder: " _She's okay. She gave me a new shirt. And her dog is cool."_

Sticky turned around, looking closely at Brad's new shirt. His brow furrowed in displeasure before finally his face relaxed into its usual blankness. “Okay.”

At that moment, Mr. Sands pointed at Brad. "Mr. Armstrong, if you and Mr. Weeks are going to keep talking, you can stand out in the hallway."

Rick gasped. "I wasn't even talking to him!" He yelled. "It was Sticky!"

"I don't want to hear any excuses!" The teacher snapped back, incensed by Rick's angry tone. "Go stand out in the hallway! Both of you."

Brad stood up, but Rick stayed in his seat, as silent and hard as a stone. His pale blue eyes were wide with anger, and when he spoke, his voice trembled. "I didn't do anything," he repeated. "It was Sticky talking to Brad, not me! I'm just minding my own business. Why are you bothering me so much?"

Close to the front of the room, Columbo and his cronies cackled in glee. Rick, always so deferential and tightly-wound, was finally bursting at the seams and snapping back. To them, this was live entertainment. They didn't care about his feelings at all.

It was no use. Red with anger, Mr. Sands pointed to the front door. "I said get out."

Brad didn't need to be told twice. He hurried up the aisle to the front door, ignoring the snickers and murmurs that rippled through the room. From the hallway, he heard Rick's voice saying something loud before the door swung open again and his friend stomped out, indignant.

Unsure of what to say, Brad stood there, glancing at Rick, whose red, wet eyes blinked rapidly. "Rick—"

"Don't talk to me."

A few minutes passed, and the teacher's voice carried through the door, but his words were unclear. Now that Brad was away, he wished he could parse the meaning, since then he at least wouldn't be stuck with a friend he couldn't talk to.

Eventually Rick started sniffling. He turned his head away from Brad and took a few steps away, leaning against the dark blue lockers that lined the indoor hallway.

Beneath Brad’s shoes the ground was splotched with dirt. The janitor, Sticky's dad, would have to take extra time mopping the floors today. Sticky always liked it when his dad had extra work. "It means he spends less time at home and has less energy to give me a wallop," Sticky had said, expressionless except for a small smile that didn't reach his beady eyes. 

At the top of the classroom door, there was a large window. Brad could see some of the room standing normally, but upon his tip toes, most of the room became clear. It seemed they had finally resumed reading the book. Suddenly he was relieved to have been banished from the room, even though it was ridiculous that Sticky somehow avoided punishment and instead Rick had been sent outside, on the verge of tears and angry at Brad for a reason he wouldn’t explain. 

Columbo was reading aloud now, gesturing dramatically with his hands to bring the characters to life. Brad could see scuff marks on his knuckles from the beatdown. All over a stupid ball he never played with. The damned prick.

Looking at the bully, who seemed immune to justice, made Brad angry, so he turned away and walked closer to Rick. The white wall he leaned against was speckled with dirt, but he didn’t mind. Maybe if he dirtied his shirt, his dad wouldn’t notice how clean and new it was. There was nothing Marty hated like a handout. Even though he refused to buy Brad new clothes, his pride would rather have his son shirtless than wearing a hand-me-down from another family. When grandpa sent them Christmas gifts, Marty threw them in the garbage and smacked Brad if he tried to salvage them.

 _I miss Grandpa,_ Brad thought, remembering the calm, smiling man who taught him self-defense. Back when Brad was young and his family was happy, Grandpa would often take him to the family dojo, a large, sprawling room with huge mirrors, punching bags, and big, muscular men to whom fighting was an art style. It was a magical place: Grandpa would teach him how to punch, kick, and defend himself, smiling proudly the whole time. "Great job," he said once, after Brad kicked the bag so hard it flew back. "The skills may have skipped my son's generation, but I'm glad I've got you to keep our style alive. Makes me proud seeing you go at it, just like I did when I was your age." Pride warmed Brad, from his head to his toes, and he threw himself into practice, honored that his hero gave such high praise.

Now, Grandpa never came around anymore, and his dojo had shut down and relocated to a town far, far away. Dad said he left so he could forget their faces, but Brad didn’t believe him. Maybe he just wanted to get out of this terrible town. Maybe, when Brad got older, he could live with Grandpa in a much nicer place, where people cared more about keeping kids safe than having perfect lawns.

A clock hung on the ceiling across from the classroom door. Twenty minutes until class ended. Would Rick sniffle the whole time they were out here? And why was he so upset?

“Stop looking at me!”

Brad jumped at his friend’s loud voice. Rick turned on him now, his eyes red and sopping tears, his white face contorted in rage.

“I wasn’t looking at you.”

“You’re a liar! Yes, you were!” Rick yelled in Brad’s face. “You always ruin everything!”

“No, I _don’t!_ ” Brad yelled back.

A fist flew towards his face, but Rick was too sloppy, and Brad was too used to dodging blows. He stepped back, his mouth open in shock. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What the hell is wrong with _you?_ ” Rick’s voice broke with emotion. He couldn’t be reasoned with, Brad saw it now; he just needed to vent his frustration on the closest target. “Why did you step in? You should have stayed away!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You _know_ what I’m talking about!”

“Just tell me what’s wrong!” Brad threw his hands into Rick’s chest, shoving him out of range. Rick stumbled backwards, but when he caught his footing, he only looked angrier.

“You shouldn’t have stepped in yesterday!” Rick yelled, his voice even louder now. Surely the class could overhear.

The door swung open, and a swarm of students gushed out, eager to watch the fight.

Rick barely seemed to notice. He jabbed his finger into Brad’s face, accusatory. “You’re always stepping in and trying to help people, but you just make things worse! Why do you do that?”

Brad didn’t know what to say. Loud noises all around him drowned out his own heartbeat, drumming in his ears. Between the yelling kids and his friend’s bizarre behavior, he didn’t know what to do. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you!” It was true; he wished he could understand why Rick was acting this way. He wanted to help; he didn’t want to fight. Friends weren’t supposed to scream at each other like this.

Rick roared and surged forwards, but a blur jumped between them. A loud smack filled the air, and then a dead weight hit the floor.

Brad was untouched, but on the ground, a kid lay in a crumpled heap.

Now shock overwhelmed Rick’s rage. “Oh my god,” he gasped. The hand he had just used to throw a punch now clamped over his mouth. “I just hit a girl!”

Joan groaned and rubbed her face, which had an ugly purple swelling over her left eye. Her glasses hung askew, haphazardly swinging from one ear and nearly falling down her white, buttoned shirt. “When I said, ‘Don’t hit him,’ I didn’t mean, ‘Hit me instead,’” she told Rick.

“I-I’ve never hit a girl before,” he said. “My mom’s gonna kill me.”

Brad suddenly felt a rough force pulling his ear. “Ow!” He yelled as his body jerked forward like a puppet on a string.

Mr. Sands grabbed Rick’s ear and hauled them away. “Come with us, Miss Chambers,” he called to Joan. “You three are going to the principal’s office right now.”

All Brad could see was the dirty ground and glimpses of Rick’s writhing body, but he heard the slap of Joan’s brown loafers against the squeaky floor. His head burned where Mr. Sands dragged him by the ear in a vice-like grip.

The secretary’s mouth dropped open when she saw Mr. Sands burst through the door with two unruly boys by the ear and a girl with a swollen eye. Before she could voice a question, the teacher said, “These three were involved in a fight. Please see to it that they speak to the principal.”

The woman bobbed her head in silent assurance before picking up the phone to speak to her boss. Judging from her response, the principal seemed to be busy. “Well, what are you looking at?" She snapped at the kids. “Go to those seats and wait till he’s ready to see you.”

Mr. Sands left them with one last, suspicious look, the door snapping shut behind him. Brad, Rick and Joan settled into the uncomfortable wooden seats that filled the main office. The only sounds they heard were the distant clacks of keyboards, buzzing printers and the A.C.’s droning, as they were still too hesitant to speak to one another.

Joan sat between the two boys, and she rubbed her hand over her face, wincing in pain. “So, what were the two of you fighting about, anyway?”

Rick glared at her. “It’s none of your business.”

“Since you hit me, I think it _is_ my business,” she said, and Rick looked away, embarrassed.

He didn’t say anything for a long time, and Brad figured he would stay obstinate until the principal came. After Brad let out a deep sigh and settled his shoulders against the chair’s hard, wooden back, Rick spoke quietly.

“He fought for me, and he shouldn’t have.”

Rick looked at him nervously. There wasn’t an apology in his eyes, but it seemed he was finally starting to realize how badly he’d behaved earlier. “I wanted to help you,” Brad said.

His friend took a deep breath and looked away to collect himself. “It didn’t change anything,” Rick said slowly. “My parents still got mad at me, and I still got beaten up by Chris and his friends. I had to watch you get hurt, too, all because of me—” When his voice broke, he cleared his throat and blinked fresh tears from his eyes. “I felt bad. Like it was all my fault.”

Brad leaned forward, looking past Joan to meet his friend’s watery gaze. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “It’s on _them_. They’re the reason we’re all busted up. I don’t blame you.”

“But you _should_ ,” Rick said. “You didn't have to cover for me. It only got you hurt.”

It was hard for Brad to fully understand why Rick was so upset. “If you get hurt, I want to help you. We’re friends,” he said. “I’m not going to stand by and watch. I’m gonna step in, even if I might get hurt, too.” 

A long, pale hand swept under Rick’s runny nose. He took in a deep, sniffling breath before wiping at his eyes with his other hand. “But what if I don’t _want_ you to step in?”

Still Brad didn’t understand, but it seemed like he was starting to get through. “Then I’ll probably step in anyway.” Rick looked at him incredulously. “I mean, I’d rather help you out and have you mad at me than not do anything and be mad at myself.”

Rick pursed his lips and took a moment to collect his thoughts. “I get it,” he whispered. “Thank you, Brad.”

Brad wished he were better at reading people, because he couldn’t tell if Rick was okay, or if the wrong word might make him explode. “So, are we cool?”

Rick nodded. “Yeah, we’re cool.”

They smiled shyly, both happy to put the fight behind them, both happy to have their feelings understood. Then Joan cleared her throat and broke the spell. “You know, you haven’t apologized to me yet.” She narrowed her eyes at Rick, who looked away in guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Joan nodded.

“Why did you step in?” Brad asked her, and she shrugged.

“I was hoping I could help break up the fight.” She sighed. “I guess I did, but not in the way I wanted. You punched surprisingly hard, Rick. Did Brad teach you the Armstrong style?”

The blue-eyed boy gawked at her in confusion, and Brad tensed. “How do you know about that?” He never spoke about his family’s martial arts style. Dad was ashamed of it, got pissed whenever it was mentioned. Brad had always assumed it must have a bad reputation. If Joan knew about it, were other families gossiping behind his back?

“My parents told me,” she said, quick and nervous. Her brown eyes, which looked large and bug-like behind her coke-bottle glasses, shifted to the side like she was afraid to look at him. “I think it’s really cool. I wish I knew martial arts.”

Rick perked up. “Your family has its own martial arts style?” He looked impressed, and Brad instantly relaxed, leaning back into the stiff armchair.

“Yeah,” he said. “My grandpa was a blackbelt, and so was his dad before him. He taught me some moves before he moved away.”

“Dude, that’s so cool!” Rick said. His eyes seemed to sparkle with enthusiasm, but it could have just been the leftover tears catching the lights. “How have I never heard about this?”

Brad shrugged, embarrassed but pleased. It was good to have a sliver of the old, excitable Rick back.

“Can you teach us?” Joan asked. “I’d like to learn how to block a blow next time.”

Brad wasn’t sure. He looked at her, skeptical, but then Rick cut in: “I might feel better if I knew how to defend myself.” He sounded so hopeful that Brad’s resolve melted.

“I guess I could try,” he said, and Joan and Rick’s bruised faces burst into matching grins.

“That would be awesome!” Rick was beaming.

“Thanks, Brad,” Joan said.

For the first time that day, Brad felt at ease. Even the principal’s later lecture couldn’t bring him down. He was even happy when the principal sent them home for the rest of the day: It meant he could check up on his sister to make sure she was okay.

Rick and Joan tagged along, chattering about the Armstrong style and blitzing him with questions, but it was enjoyable all the same. The sun was warm on his back as they walked through the woods towards his home. They didn't even say anything when they arrived at his house, as busted-down and broken-looking at it was, and for that Brad was grateful. Normally he was ashamed to bring people back to his home, and now he’d done it two times in a row.

The driveway was empty. Although she was alone in the house, Lisa seemed okay. She even smiled when she saw him. Brad’s friends waited patiently outside as he changed her diaper and grabbed her bottle. Joan even gasped when he stepped out of the front door with Lisa.

She leapt forward and snatched Lisa from his arms. “She is so _adorable,_ ” Joan cried, gazing into the little face with unsettling excitement. “I love her!”

“You don’t even know her,” Brad joked, but a muscle in his jaw twitched.

Joan just shook her head, a long, red braid flopping over her shoulder. “Oh, but I do,” she whispered.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” Her fleshy face widened as she smiled from ear to ear. “Why don’t you guys practice while I hold her?”

“You don’t want to practice with us?” Rick asked.

Joan shook her head cheerfully. “I’ll just watch and learn from what you guys do.” She rearranged the bundle in her arms, resting Lisa’s head against her collarbone and gazing down at the baby like she was a treasure.

 _Must be a girl thing,_ Brad thought, frowning. It was rude for her to swipe Lisa like that, but maybe she just couldn’t help herself. Weren’t girls supposed to go crazy for puppies and babies? He couldn’t fault her enthusiasm; maybe mom had been just as vehement about her love for Lisa. All he remembered was mom’s misery, heavy and all-consuming, but there must have been some fondness in the beginning.

Brad led his friends into the woods behind his house and crouched into a defensive position. “Do what I’m doing, Rick,” he said. “The first thing my grandpa taught me was how to defend myself.”

Rick nodded and mirrored his pose, bringing his forearms up to cover his face. Joan stood nearby, saying nothing. Although she promised to watch and learn, she focused solely on the bundle in her arms. She gave Lisa a kiss on the forehead, and the baby giggled in pleasure.

It was a relief to know Lisa was being watched. Brad turned his attention to Rick and smiled. “Okay, now I’m going to show you some of my grandpa’s signature moves,” he said. “Watch carefully. It’s hard to learn at first, but soon enough, you’ll get the hang of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's funny: Even though Rick and Sticky don't have a lot of screentime, we get _just_ enough hints that have me developing headcanons and wondering about their lives. Rick is a person who's positive on the surface but has a lot of pent-up problems. Of course, when he's older, he's better at hiding it -- how else would he and his wife have not divorced even though they're obviously unhappy together? -- but he must have had some explosions as a kid, which is why he starts a fight with Brad here.
> 
> I had to dig into my own middle school memories for this one. Friends would fight over stuff I couldn't even understand, but it was always a relief when they'd make up afterwards, as Brad and Rick do here. The reason Rick felt so bad was because of his own guilt: He stole Columbo's ball, but Brad took the fall, and he directs that anger outwards towards Brad. Luckily, they have something new to bond over in the form of good ol' Grandpa Armstrong's special moves :)
> 
> Also, Joan finally met Lisa! I'll admit that some of their interactions at the end were self-indulgent... I would 100% give Lisa a big old hug and admire her instead of do karate if I were in Joan's situation. I've always loved Lisa's character and wanted to to create an AU that gave her a chance to live... hence, this story's existence!
> 
> Next chapter we'll step into the mind of Sticky Angoneli, which I'm looking forward to! He's definitely more complex than he lets on, I think.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!


	5. Sticky I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is my personal favorite so far. I don't know why, but I really enjoyed stepping into Sticky's head. Although he's been through a lot of B.S. and he has his own bitterness, he's a lot more optimistic than Brad, and I had fun expanding his character based on what we saw in canon. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do! d=(´▽｀)=b

Things were changing, and not for the better.

Behind Sticky’s seat, Brad and Rick were laughing over some dumb, whispered joke. Sticky missed it, but apparently, Joan had overheard, since her snickers slithered down his ear canals.

Sticky wished Joan had kept her seat at the front of the class, but she had convinced Mr. Sands to move her away from Columbo and his friends. Sure, he didn’t have to hear them bickering anymore, but now that Joan sat next to him, he could hear her obnoxious voice better than ever.

Although Joan claimed not to have enjoyed their beatdown on the basketball court, Sticky couldn’t shake his suspicion. Sure, she gave Brad a new shirt, but the way she talked made his skin crawl. It was unnatural. She spoke like an encyclopedia, constantly trying to one-up the teacher, and always having the perfect answer for anything he asked. She wasn’t normal.

Somehow, no one else in their friend group could see it. Sure, the rest of the class seemed to wish she’d shut up, but Brad, Rick, and Cheeks were somehow fine with her. They didn’t seem to care that, in the few months since she’d started playing with them, people now mocked them more than ever. _As if we don’t have a big enough target on our backs,_ Sticky thought.

If it weren’t for his friends’ nonchalance, Sticky would have told her to scram a long time ago. Instead, he accepted the change and tried to work around it as best as he could. Dad taught him a long time ago that fortitude was the key to a good life. “Bad times are only temporary,” he’d said once, a long time ago. Of all the unsolicited advice he’d given throughout the years, it was his only worthwhile lesson.

Before she ran away, mom had given him another good lesson. “Always stick to your guns,” she’d said. “Trust your gut and stay confident.”

If only Brad could absorb those words. The poor guy shoved his feelings down deep inside. Unless you questioned him with all the intensity of a lawyer during cross-examination, he would never explain his problems. It took him a whole six months to admit that his mom had died.

At the time, Sticky hadn’t known what to say. He still didn’t. When Brad’s mother kicked the bucket, things were tense. How could he say, “I’m sorry for your loss,” when he’d been wishing for years that his own mother were dead? There was no way he could explain how she marred the Angoneli name, how she gave dad endless fuel for angry rants that led to beatings.

Some things were just too hard to talk about, so they spoke in other ways: a special handshake, a funny gesture, or a friendly punch that left a bruise. It worked for them. In their friend group, certain things just went unsaid, and he wouldn’t let the intruder change anything.

Joan was probably desperate for friends, but why, of all people, did she choose Brad? They had nothing in common. And why was he indulging her? What it because she gave him a shirt?

On second thought, that might be the reason. Come to think of it, he’d worn little else in the past three months. _Is that really the only shirt he has now?_ Sticky wondered. Dad once told him Mr. Armstrong used to be a hotshot baseball player. “How far he’s fallen,” dad had sneered, smiling at nothing, his eyes far away. “I may clean toilets, but at least I _have_ a job.”

As terrible as it was, Sticky was glad his situation was a little better than Brad’s. He, at least, had four shirts. Sure, they were all hand-me-downs from the thrift shop, but at least he didn’t have to rely on Joan to clothe him.

How pathetic that she resorted to bribery to find friends. That girl clung to every word Brad spoke like he was some sort of messiah. From the way she acted, you’d think the fate of the world rested in his hands.

The thought made Sticky laugh. Brad was nothing more than another dumb, backwater hick with a crummy future and a violent father. That’s what Sticky liked about him: they had a lot in common. Dad beats you? Grit your teeth and bear it. Take your due, go to school early, play so hard you’re numb when you get home, lather, rinse, repeat.

Sticky got used to it a long time ago. Brad still had a way to go — his dad only recently revealed his true colors — but he’d get there soon enough. Now he just had to go through those growing pains. Injustice was hard to get used to, but soon Brad would learn you can’t fight your way through a brick wall. “You can’t change the opposition; you can only change how you react to it,” Sticky’s mom said the night she left. “You’re too much like glue, honey. Be like rubber instead. That way, everything your dad says will bounce off you and stick to him.”

She’d kissed his forehead, tidied up his bed, and walked to his door, where the light from the hallway shone behind her shadowy silhouette. She shut the door and the darkness engulfed her. This was the last time Sticky saw her; now she was gone, and he barely recalled her face. Only that shadow-shape remained.

Suddenly a paper wad fell upon his desk. He found a message in Rick’s handwriting: _Don’t forget it’s game night!_ A cartoon knight waving a sword was scribbled in blue ink next to the eager words.

Ever since Rick’s birthday, he invited everyone over once a week to play the fun but nerdy game he’d gotten as a gift. Sticky would never tell anyone they played it, but it was a fun time-waster, and today, Joan wouldn’t join them since she had a meeting with the new science teacher.

Sticky twisted around in his seat and gave his friend a thumbs-up. He laughed at Rick’s enthusiastic grin before turning back, watching the teacher’s lecture with a satisfied smile on his face.

Game nights were always great. They would head over to Rick’s place after tiring themselves out through tag, hide and seek, or whatever other game that had them running through the woods. Then they’d crowd around the Weeks family table, which had plush pillows on the seats and plastic placemats with colorful farmland photos.

Sticky loved going to Rick’s house. It was clean and picturesque, like a cover on one of those home design magazines. Actually, it was better, since the place always smelled of food, like burgers, lasagna, or whatever else Mr. or Mrs. Weeks felt like cooking that day. Delicious aromas hung around the halls, and Rick’s parents were unfailingly kind. Mr. Weeks called him “sport” or “champ” depending on his mood, and while his cheesy jokes made Rick groan, Sticky appreciated the effort. They were patient and optimistic, and they never showed a lick of cruelty. At first, it unnerved him — he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop — but over time, he came to realize they were what a normal family looked like.

The more time around them, the better. Sticky appreciated having a place where he could be a normal kid, instead of a punching bag to take the day’s troubles out on. Whenever he started getting angry at his mom for leaving, and his thoughts took him down the dark path of bitterness, he could tell himself, _At least Mrs. Weeks isn’t like that._ She seemed to care about him. She even remembered his birthday back in January: Rick had come to school with a cupcake from the local bakery. Atop white frosting that was smothered in coconut shavings, the blue numbers “1” and “2” stood together to reflect his new age.

Sticky had been so touched he lost his cool and wrapped Rick in an awkward hug. “Thanks so much, man,” he said.

Rick blushed, completely unused to the show of sentiment. “Uh, you’re welcome, friend-o,” he said. “But it’s actually from my mom. She wanted me to give you a birthday gift.”

“ _Oooh,_ I see.” Sticky playfully nudged his elbow into Rick’s side. “Give your mom a kiss from me.”

“Dude!” Rick yelled, his face fully red. “That’s freaking gross!” Then he chased Sticky back into the classroom, where Cheeks saw the cupcake and immediately slapped his forehead.

“Aw, man, I totally forgot your birthday was today!” The blond sighed.

“Don’t sweat it. You can make it up to me by giving me your pizza today.”

Cheeks gasped. “You want me to give you my lunch on _Pizza Friday?_ The one thing I’ve been looking forward to all week?”

“Not your whole lunch; just the highlight,” Sticky said. At his friend’s doubtful look, he casually leaned back into his seat, feigning nonchalance. “But I guess if pizza is more important to you than your best friend since kindergarten…”

Cheeks’ resolve collapsed like a Jenga tower. “All right, fine — but at least give me a bite of your cupcake.”

“Hell no.” Sticky plucked out the decorative numbers and stuffed the whole thing into his mouth. Crumbs tumbled down his chin, but he closed his lips and loudly moaned in ecstasy.

Rick gagged and turned his head, but Cheeks burst out laughing. “You dickhead!”

Sticky tried to retaliate by calling Cheeks a “dickweed,” but he couldn’t get a word out between the bites of vanilla and coconut goodness. Instead, he let out another long cry of pleasure. Despite his dramatic moans as he polished off the cupcake, Cheeks still gave him an extra slice of pizza during lunch. _Now, that’s true friendship,_ Sticky thought then, sitting in the middle of the cafeteria and feasting like a king.

He got a similar feeling when they all crowded around Rick’s kitchen table for game night. He sat by Rick’s left while Cheeks took the right seat, and Brad sat across from their host with a hesitant smile on his face. Seeing Brad happy made Sticky proud; it was rare for his stoic friend to crack a smile, let alone laugh, but game nights loosened him up, and Sticky loved to see it.

Everything was perfect until the phone rang.

Mrs. Weeks emerged from her bedroom. “Yes, hello?” She said, a manicured hand gripping the orange receiver. “Um, I’m sorry, I can’t make out what you’re saying—” She flinched as though a loud noise had startled her. “Oh gosh, now I can hear y—yes, he’s here. Why? Wait, _really?_ No, I’m not judging you—I’m just surprised—I mean, don’t you think that’s a lot of responsibility? No, as I said, I’m not judging. Okay, I’ll tell him. You know, if you ever need help, we’re more than happy to— _Oh my!_ ” She gasped at the receiver, which emitted the dead ring of a hang-up. Evidently, the interrupting caller hadn’t cared for her help. “Why, I never!” She muttered, neatly returning the phone to its spot on the hanger.

The others hadn’t listened in as Mrs. Weeks spoke; they were distracted by some joke Cheeks had told, but Sticky watched as she nervously paced towards them, a strange mixture of anxiety and guilt on her face.

She stepped beside Brad. When he saw the look on her face, the joy in his eyes withered. “Brad, your dad just called. He said he wants you to come home and take care of your sister?”

Brad looked down, slumping over like all the life had left his muscles. “Brad?” Mrs. Weeks touched his shoulder.

“Thanks for having me over, Rick.” Brad pushed his chair back so he could stand. His face was unreadable. “Thanks for the dinner, Mrs. Weeks.” 

“Does this happen often?” She asked.

Brad paused for a moment. “I like knowing my sister is safe,” he said slowly. Then he turned and quickly walked out the door.

Things were weird for a while after that. They got back to their game, trying not to talk about what just happened besides a quick: “That was odd,” and “I wonder what’s going on,” but the strangeness hung over them for the next few minutes. Once their game finally got back to normal, Rick’s parents interrupted to announce their departure.

“All right, little buddy, make sure your friends leave at 7!” Mr. Weeks said, looking snazzy in a powder blue suit with bulging shoulder pads. “Your mom and I are off for date night, and we don’t want y’all throwing any parties!” He bellowed with laughter, and Rick meekly assured him that no funny business would go down. Sticky wasn’t listening; he was wondering how Mrs. Weeks could look so happy-go-lucky and unbothered. How could she dismiss such a strange call? Wasn’t she worried about Brad?

Despite this, Sticky smiled and waved, wishing them a good night. His friends went back to their game, their enjoyment diminished by the fact that they’d have to leave soon. Rick was a stickler for the rules; even if his parents weren’t around, he would feel guilty for disobeying them. From experience, Sticky knew he’d be politely but firmly asked to leave at 7 p.m. Nevertheless, Sticky had fun in the next half hour, feeling relaxed until the crashing front door nearly gave him a heart attack.

“Gee whiz!” Rick cried out, clutching his chest.

“Sounds like someone’s knocking,” Cheeks said.

“Or trying to break the door down,” Sticky muttered.

The front door almost shook from the furious pounding outside. “I’ll go get it,” Sticky said.

“No!” Rick hissed. “It could be a robber who just saw my parents leave and thinks the house is easy pickings!”

Cheeks shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe your parents forgot something.”

“Wouldn’t they just let themselves in with their key, though?” Sticky asked.

“Maybe their _key_ is what they forgot!” Cheeks hit him with double finger guns.

“Oh, dang,” Sticky said. “You’re right.”

Rick looked dubious. “They would never knock like _that_ , though. They’d probably just use the doorbell.”

Then a familiar voice cut through the noise. “Rick? Mr. or Mrs. Weeks?”

“Is that Brad?” Cheeks scurried to the front door and peered through the peephole. “Guys! It _is_ Brad! And he’s got a toddler!”

“Let him in then.” Sticky raised his voice so it would drown out Rick’s protests. If Brad was back with his little sister, something serious had to have happened.

Sure enough, a terrified Brad burst into the living room with a coughing baby, whose sweaty face was covered in red spots. Brad was talking a mile a minute: “I came home, and dad was gone and Lisa was all alone in her crib, looking so sick, and I don’t think dad even looked at her — how else could he just _leave?_ — and she wouldn’t eat or drink at all, and I was so scared, I thought maybe your mom or dad would know what to do.”

Rick grimaced. “I’m so sorry, man, but they just left.”

Now the fear on Brad’s face shifted to disbelief. “No.”

“They just left to go to a movie,” Rick said apologetically. His pale blue eyes flickered to the living room clock, which read 7:02.

“There has to be something we can do,” Sticky said.

He looked at Cheeks. Of the group, Cheeks was the only one with prior experience caring for babies. His deeply religious parents took to heart the biblical advice to be fruitful and multiply; he was kid number three of a five-children household. While he’d never been left completely alone with a baby the way Brad now was, he had experience caring for his sisters when they were sick.

Now the short blond stepped forward and motioned for Lisa, whose coughs morphed into cries of protest when she moved to his arms. “Shh, it’s okay.” He lightly clicked his tongue and rearranged her body, so her chin rested against his shoulder. Lisa leaned into his neck, and the crying stopped. “How old is she?”

Brad thought for a moment. “Her birthday was last month,” he said. It was March now.

“Okay.” Cheeks’ dark green eyes drifted upwards. “This could be chickenpox, but I’m not sure. The rash on her face doesn’t look like chicken spots I’ve seen.”

“That doesn’t help at all,” Brad said.

“Well, I’m not a doctor.” With ruddy skin that was tinged pink even on the best of days, Cheeks looked like a tomato when he blushed. “But we could try to make her more comfortable at least.” He winced when Lisa hacked a wet cough into his ear.

The boys looked at one another. “We can’t give her a cough drop,” Rick said. “She could choke.”

“Yeah, no,” Sticky said. “Maybe we could give her some food?”

“We don’t have any baby food here!”

Cheeks turned to Brad. “Since she’s 13 months old, she can eat solids, right?”

“Yes, but only stuff specially made for babies.” Brad gave Cheeks the side eye. “Do you really think it’s not something serious?”

“Yeah.” At first, Cheeks sounded confident, but he squirmed under Brad’s intimidating stare. “But I’m not so sure,” he added hastily. “Since Rick’s parents are out, we should try to take care of her until they come back, don’tcha think?”

“Sure.”

“By the way, I’m going to set her down now. She can walk, right?”

“No.”

Cheeks’ green eyes widened. “Really?”

His unhidden amazement made Brad look away. “She can crawl.”

“She should be walking by now.” While Rick went to the kitchen to look for food, Cheeks gently lowered Lisa to the plush, white carpet. Lisa whined, coughed, and crawled towards her brother.

Brad scooped her up and shot a defensive frown at Cheeks. “She’ll learn to walk soon.”

“Okay,” Cheeks said. “I’m going to go look for something she can eat.” He scurried away to join Rick in the kitchen, eager to leave Brad’s strained presence.

Alone at last. Sticky took in his friend’s face: it looked worn and tense. Wordlessly, Sticky led him to the couch, where he seemed to sink into the soft, cotton cushions. Lisa squirmed uncomfortably in his grasp, but she stilled when Sticky felt her forehead.

“Chickenpox or not, it’s a fever.” Brad grunted in agreement, probably too tired or stressed to reply. “I’m going to get her a cold cloth.”

With that, Sticky wandered through the first floor in search of small towels. He briefly considered asking Rick, but then he heard Cheeks’ loud cry of joy when he found a box of mashed potatoes.

“Hey, she’ll be able to eat this at least!”

“Awesome,” Rick said. “Let’s get it ready on the stove then.”

“Do you think we should chill it when we’re done? It might be better for her throat then.”

“How would we chill it?”

“I don’t know. Put some ice cubes in it?”

Rick looked disgusted. “Ice cubes in mashed potatoes? That’s going to ruin it!”

“Dude, it’s a baby. We don’t have to make her a five-star meal! It’s not like she’s a gourmet.”

“It still sounds nasty to me.”

Cheeks cleared his throat. “Maybe we can, like, dunk the pan in ice water when we’re done?”

“Or we can just stick in the refrigerator for a few minutes.”

“Oh, dang.” Cheeks said. “You’re right.”

Sticky moved away from the clanging of pots and pans and walked towards the bathroom. The tall white hallways were stuffed with picture frames that held images of weddings, family vacations, and Rick as a baby. One photo showed a worn Mrs. Weeks on a hospital bed, holding her red-faced newborn with her grinning husband crouching beside her, one arm behind the bed and the other wrapped protectively around his wife and child. They were glowing. Rick was set from the moment he came into the world.

Pushing the niggling jealousy from his mind, Sticky ambled to the bathroom, where he caught a quick glimpse of himself in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty. The hair dad had shaved off months ago was growing back unevenly. It made his already cue ball-shaped skullcap looked wonky and bizarre. Only one patch of hair had gone untouched by dad’s tantrum, and now those long tendrils shot up like TV antennas.

Sticky only found medicine in the mirror’s cupboard. Under the sink, there were shampoos, creams, and soaps that emitted a dizzying onslaught of flowery scents. He also found feathery toilet paper that was softer than anything his ass had ever felt before. For a moment, he considered swiping a roll; then he realized how pathetic that was and shut the cabinet.

He could hear his friend’s voices clearly when he stepped back into the hall. “How long will it take to cook?” Rick was asking Cheeks.

“About 10 more minutes,” Cheeks replied.

“Good! Wait, why are you putting that huge bowl of water in the freezer?”

“’Cause we need to chill the taters, but there’s not enough room for the pan in the fridge, so we can just dunk it in this cold water later.”

“Oh my God.” Sticky couldn’t see them from where he was standing, but he imagined Rick pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Cheeks, we can make room in the fridge by moving stuff around and taking it out.”

“Oh.” He paused. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Sticky eventually found a little hand towel, and he sidled past his friends to douse it in cold water. Cheeks and Rick were still working on the mashed potatoes, now arguing over whether they should put herbs in it. Cheeks insisted that Lisa didn’t need anything fancy, but Rick thought she deserved a sprinkling of basil for extra flavor.

The little girl moaned softly when Sticky held the cold towel over her forehead. Her tiny body shivered in Brad’s arms, but her bright, turquoise eyes watched him carefully. Sticky had only seen Mrs. Armstrong a few times, back when Brad’s family went to church, but he remembered her long, black hair and striking eyes. She had been a beauty, and Lisa would likely follow in her footsteps.

Brad was tired for the rest of the night, but Lisa seemed to perk up when Cheeks and Rick came to the room, offering her food. She took two bites of the mashed potatoes and a spoonful of water, and the boys had been proud of themselves for helping her — until she threw up. Then they decided to draw a bath for her while Brad cleaned her clothes and dried them with a hairdryer.

It was the first time Rick or Sticky had ever spent this much time around a little kid. Though they were grossed out by her throw up, they mostly enjoyed having her around, mainly because it was a new experience. Cheeks, who they looked to as the expert in this situation, took a step into the bath to make sure it wasn’t too hot, and Rick found a pink solution that turned the water into a bubble bath. Despite her sickness, Lisa seemed to enjoy herself, splashing the water with her chubby arms and playing with the yellow duck Rick fished out of his cabinet. It wasn’t enough to make Sticky wish he had a little sibling, but it was fun.

Eventually, sleep blew its siren call. Cheeks was the first to lie down on one of the couches when Rick told him he couldn’t sleep over, but by then Brad was snoozing in Rick’s room. Nobody wanted to wake him up, so they had to figure out what to do with Lisa. At the time, Rick was holding her, and she slept with her head cradled in the nook of his shoulder.

“Maybe we can put her on your bed?” Sticky asked, yawning.

“But she might get smothered by the pillows.”

“Let’s put them away, then,” Sticky said, rearranging the pillows and sheets so she could sleep on them safely.

“Hey, I found a sleeping bag under the bed!” Cheeks started unrolling it without Rick’s permission and was nestled inside of it by the time they’d carefully put Lisa down.

“They seriously need to leave,” Rick whispered, but Sticky glanced down at the boy sitting on the floor, fast asleep.

“Do you want to be the one who wakes Brad?” 

Rick pursed his lips and shook his head.

“Then I hope your parents have enough sleeping bags for us.”

Luckily, Rick’s parents were well-prepared. He and Sticky set down their sleeping bags near the bed, while Brad was sound asleep with his head leaning on the side of Rick’s mattress. Lisa slept on her back with her chubby arms spread out. She looked comfortable, and if she had any problems in the night, they would all be nearby to help her.

 _What a strange day,_ Sticky thought as he watched the glowing stars on Rick’s ceiling. He never imagined he’d help take care of a baby with his friends, but there was a first time for everything. Later, he would learn that Lisa’s ailment was a common sickness, nothing dire at all, but babies weren’t on his mind as he started to fall asleep. Instead, he basked in the warmth of the bodies around him, of the softness of his sleeping bag and the fun he’d had. He fell asleep with thoughts of brotherhood and a smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sticky in canon: I held myself up, you fell down... what ever happened to brotherhood?  
> Me: That's some good shit *runs with it*
> 
> Sticky won't be as consistent a POV character as Brad or Joan, but I wanted a distinct voice to counteract their perspectives, which can be a little...uh...bleak. Still, Sticky is a perceptive and thoughtful kid, so even this chapter has a little bit of angst in it. Here we get some of my headcanons, too, like the idea that his mom ran away... because seriously, can you _imagine_ being married to Mr. Angoneli? A dude who calls his own kid a piece of shit, and who later scars Buddy?
> 
> This was a chapter I had in mind since I first started writing this story, since I loved the idea of a bunch of clueless kids helping to take care of a baby. (Although Cheeks has a little more experience, since I wanted to make him stand out some more. In my headcanon, he helps his parents take care of his little siblings sometimes.) 
> 
> Fun(?) Fact: For a hot minute, I considered having one of them try to throw her in the air, only for her to fall -- just like Buddy -- but I couldn't bring myself to write it, haha. Instead, she gets a nice bubble bath, and you have Rick and Cheeks arguing over whether or not a baby can be a gourmet (˵¯̴͒ꇴ¯̴͒˵) 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you liked it!


	6. Joan II

Joan coped with pain by pretending it didn’t exist, but the truth unsheathed itself when she slept.

She dreamed of the apocalypse, of choking against the white light of the flash that would drag her and every other woman to the netherworld.

When she woke up, she would forget her name. In those frightful moments when she transitioned from dreamland to the waking world, she forgot what God had done to her. She forgot that she was Joan and thought she was still her former self. She would cast wild eyes over her room, recognizing nothing, until finally her mind caught up with her jackrabbit heartbeat and led her back to sanity.

In those moments, she would pray. She’d ask God why He resurrected her, why He let her remember the life she’d been too desperate to escape. Was it a punishment?

Before her soul went by the name “Joan,” she lived a life that was dominated by her God-fearing parents. They drilled countless lessons into her skull, chief among them the fact that faith leads to salvation.

They also said that suicide condemns its sinner’s soul to eternal Hell.

In this past life, she wasn’t sure if her faith was strong enough to save her. She believed in God, but she didn’t want to live on His Earth any longer. She wanted either Heaven or oblivion, and she begged God not to send her to Hell for ending her life.

He must have listened.

After her leap of faith, God shepherded her soul into a newborn body with all the memories of her former life. Oddly enough, she also remembered things that had never happened. During her time in the afterlife, time was not a straight line but a winding spiral through which she could see past, present, and future.

What she saw of the future made her soul turn cold.

“It’s a blessing to be reborn,” the logical part of her brain said, “because this way you’re on Earth instead of Hell.” However, she couldn’t understand why she’d been reborn with knowledge of Olathe’s apocalyptic future.

When she woke up, sweat-drenched and terrified, she would pray under the dark morning sky. She’d ask why He didn’t snatch her memories away, why she couldn’t live normally, why she had to go through a second childhood with a mature adult mind from a former life. She would beg Him for a sign, for some divine guidance that could soothe her worries and give her meaning.

He never responded.

Joan’s burden weighed heavily on her mind, so much so that she fell back on her past life’s habits. Back when she went by a different name, she shoved her anguish deep down, ignoring her problems in favor of a cheerful façade that was maintained by distracting tasks and an unrelenting focus on her fractured family. Day after day, she dutifully scrubbed away cracks on the surface, too weak to chip away at the iceberg of trauma and pain deep below. Instead of breaking the wheel that had hurt her as a child, she became a pawn, passing on her pain and trauma until it was too late. Eventually, all her acting and dancing collapsed like a tree with weak roots, collapsed like her limp body as a necklace-rope wrung life from her aching flesh.

Instead of learning her lesson, Joan carried this fatal flaw into her next life. She pushed down the truth of who she was for years, pretending she was another normal child, until the evidence piled up so high that reality jerked her head out of the sand and forced her to face the light.

Her new parents taught her the word “Olathe” when she was three years old. “That's where we live,” her father had said in his sweet, sing-song voice, pointing to a colorful map in one of the Chambers family’s countless books. Joan sang it back to him in a garbled mispronunciation, flopping her unwieldy fingers over the land’s borders. 

At the time, something about the word was strangely familiar, but she didn't know why. There was no chance her awkward tongue could properly phrase the question in her mind, so she couldn't ask him if he had mentioned it before. Adjusting to a new, weak and tiny body was disorienting. Her gaze shifted to the kitchen window, through which she saw her mother chasing after a flock of chickens. The sight fascinated her toddler brain, and she waddled over to the backyard, pushing the trouble from her mind.

A few years later, Joan saw a fawn dashing across the park with a grinning boy on its back. Stylish sunglasses bounced over his nose as the fawn galloped through the playgrounds at a breakneck pace. 

“Who is that?” Joan squeaked, disturbed yet intrigued.

Her mom pushed Joan on the swings and eyed the boy, who was dressed in all black. “I think that's the Columbo kid,” she said.

Joan gasped, recognition flaring up in her mind. “I've heard that name before.”

“Really?” Her mom asked. “Where?”

“I don't know,” Joan said. She couldn't place it for the life of her, but niggling doubts pricked at her mind. Certainly, she would have remembered meeting such a ridiculous person, but Chris wasn't ringing any bells in that regard. Where could she have seen him?

“Honey, do you want to get off?” Mrs. Chambers misunderstood her daughter's sudden stillness. “You want to go say hi to your friend?”

“Umm…” Joan’s pursed her lips and looked at the sky, unsure. It was her mother's concerned gaze that made her nod and say, “Sure, I guess.”

The pebbles crunched beneath Joan’s feet as she jumped off the swing set and ambled over to the strangest boy she had ever seen. “Hi there. I’m Joan!” She waved to the rapidly approaching rider. 

His hand shot out for a high five. Instead of clapping Joan’s outstretched hand, the boy smacked her face so hard she toppled to the ground, cracking her head on the playground’s concrete borders.

“Get bent, nerd!” Chris Columbo shouted.

The pain was so intense it zapped away any thoughts about how she recognized him. All Joan could focus on were the jagged lightning bolts running through her nerves, none of which hurt as much as her pride. Bitch-slapped by a boy riding a fawn. That would take ages to live down.

It was a long time until Joan faced the reality of her situation. As she grew older, always with doubts and unexplainable memories playing in the back of her mind, she was able to overlook familiar places and strange characters through the sheer force of her own denial. She shoved away countless clues so she wouldn’t have to face the truth.

But Lisa Armstrong could not be ignored.

Although Mr. and Mrs. Chambers weren’t as religious as Joan’s former parents, they went to church for special events. Every Christmas, the church would open its doors to the whole community. Vivid lights sparkled from the rafters and free foods filled the halls with mouth-watering smells. 

On that starry night, they entered the local church with stars twinkling over their heads. Joan and her parents drank in the celebratory atmosphere: Mom and Dad chatted with other parents, while Joan clung to their legs, overwhelmed by the surrounding stimuli. The dark, wooden benches had been carried inside, and now the hall was open and stuffed to the brim with smiling people. 

As Joan gazed over the sea of unfamiliar faces, a dark-haired family caught her eye. By all accounts, they seemed ordinary: A heavyset man in a classically ugly sweater shouted with laughter at something his son had said. The small, chubby boy who looked like a carbon copy of his dad beamed with pride when his mother patted his head. A newborn was swaddled in white blankets, gurgling at the noise.

The little boy touched his mother’s arms. “Is Lisa trying to laugh, too?”

“Who knows? She might be too young to laugh.” His mother wore a deep blue sweater with a smattering of white stars sewn in. “It’s hard to tell what a baby wants to say. It must be frustrating, being so small and unable to speak properly. Don’t you think?”

The boy took a moment to think it through. “I guess so. Is that why Lisa used to scream so loud before dad shook her?”

For a moment, the mother’s eyes flashed in fury, and she shot a vengeful look towards her husband. Then her features quickly relaxed into a languid smile; the shift was so abrupt Joan wondered if she’d imagined the woman’s anger. 

“Maybe,” she told her son in a careful tone.

“Lisa’s screams weren’t _nothing_ compared to yours, son!” The father bellowed, drink reddening his cheeks and amplifying his tone. “When you were a baby, you shrieked and shouted so loud, I thought you were a goddamn _demon—_ ”

“Shh! _Marty!_ ” His wife hissed. “This is a place of worship!”

Lisa whined, struggling in her blankets. Sharp cries burst out of her throat, and the little boy caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Shh, it’s okay, Lisa,” he murmured. “We’re just talking.”

His mother’s eyes brightened with pride when Lisa quieted. “Well done, honey,” she cooed. “What a good job you did.”

Marty rolled his eyes. “That’s nothing,” he snapped, and his son wilted. “Quit congratulating the kid for stupid shit. You’re smothering him.”

“That is the second time you’ve sworn in the Lord’s sacred space.” She shot him an icy glare.

“Whatever,” Marty slurred, swatting at the air and mouthing at his empty cup. “I’m gonna go get some more of that eggnog.”

“Please don’t, honey.”

He lumbered off, and his wife sighed.

“I’m sorry, mom,” the boy said. He was the spitting image of his father: dark, heavyset, and wide-faced, yet while Marty was loud and gruff, he was quiet and somber.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Brad.” Her voice was resolute. “You’re good and you’re smart. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Joan’s attention was called back to her parents. She overheard her mother asking a friend who the noisy family was. As Joan’s eyes roamed over the tired mother and her children, she heard the words: “Those are the Armstrongs.”

The voice went on about Brad and Lisa and how much of a scandal it was when the newly graduated Marty Armstrong got a high schooler pregnant, but the words faded into static once reality sucker-punched her face.

“Holy shit.”

Her parents gasped. Their mouths hung open like dying fish gasping for air. 

After a few months, her father recollected himself. “Where did you learn a word like that?”

“I’m so sorry.” Joan’s cheeks sizzled. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

They interrogated her with endless questions until her head hurt, and after that, her mother dragged her to the bathroom. Joan left the party with the taste of soap on her tongue, and her parents interpreted her silence as sulkiness. In reality, she was shell-shocked by the truth of her situation.

Not only had she been reincarnated, but she’d been born into a world that was doomed to devolve into apocalyptic depravity. _How could this have happened?_ Joan thought. _Is this real, or am I making it all up in my head? Am I insane? But if I am, why did I recognize them? And why are my memories so vivid?_

When Joan started sniffling, her father met her eyes through the rearview mirror and frowned. “That’s what you get for being a bad girl.”

Sniffles morphed into body-wracking sobs. Those words reminded her of her previous parents, who said suicide barred you from Heaven. Her former life came flooding back, in which she’d made mistake after mistake, each one more shameful and despicable than the last.

Was this divine punishment? Was she doomed to a life in hell, living in Olathe next to Marty, who would soon lose his sweet wife and succumb to corruption, torturing his children to the point of madness? How could she live knowing Lisa was being tortured in the house down the lane? 

The thought turned her stomach. Acid burned in her nostrils as bile shot from her throat and splattered against the car’s innards.

The car screeched to a halt. Her father watched in shock from the driver’s seat while her mother leaped from the passenger’s side. Mrs. Chambers threw open the backseat and pulled Joan into a tight hug. “Darling, it’s okay! Yes, you swore, but it’s not that big of a deal.”

She didn’t understand. How could she? Joan tried to speak, but it felt like a python constricted her throat. It was scary to be trapped inside this puny, powerless body that spasmed with primal sobs.

Mr. Chambers came out, too, and then they were all out of the car, hugging each other on the dirt road. “Please calm down, honey,” he said. “I promise we’ll never wash your mouth out with soap ever again. I didn’t know it would bother you so much.”

They held her for a long time, even though the winter winds brought goosebumps and blue lips. Their arms were sure and strong around her shaking frame. They only pulled away when Joan stopped sniffling.

“Thank you,” Joan rasped, her voice ragged from the crying. “Thank you so much.”

A 10-year-old was probably too old to cuddle up to her mom the whole ride home, but Joan couldn’t care less. All she could think of was how lucky she was to have these loving parents when the kids next door had terrible odds. 

_They’re good people,_ she thought. _I don’t deserve them._

If only she could tell them what she’d just realized, but they could never understand. They might put her in a mental facility, or if her predictions about the upcoming war came true, who knew what might happen? She already knew Yado would start creating joy mutants for the military. Maybe they rounded up people with strange skills to use. Maybe they’d find her and take her away, too.

It was safer to keep her mouth shut, but still, she couldn’t stop thinking selfishly. _I don’t want mom to die in the White Flash,_ she thought. _I don’t want dad to lose us and suffer, alone, fighting in the wastelands._

But that was far off. Joan didn’t want Brad and Lisa to suffer at Marty’s hands. She didn’t want to lose that adorable little girl who crawled on the lush grass and played with her braids. She wanted Lisa to _live_.

That night, Joan prayed for the first time in her life. “Please, God, give me the courage to change the future. Give me the strength to save Lisa and do what I can to stop the world from falling apart.” Her squeaky, childish voice sounded ridiculous making these grand goals. Joan shivered in shame. “And please, God, give me the faith to never forget my goals, no matter what bad things happen. Amen.”

Her new dad liked to quote an African proverb: While you pray, move your feet.

For months after that incident, Joan was so obsessed with her goals that she accomplished nothing. She had only two: Save Lisa and save Olathe. She knew, somehow, that the two were intertwined, though she couldn’t explain how. She just knew that Lisa was the key to saving the world, to saving her parents, and — selfishly — to saving herself.

When she first saw Lisa, she was overwhelmed by excitement. When she held the little girl in her arms, and Lisa looked up with those big, beautiful, turquoise eyes, all Joan wanted to do was run far away.

But Brad would catch her, and then she’d never see Lisa again. She had to be careful about this, had to bide her time. Instead of following her instincts, she forced herself to sit still and play with the girl whenever Brad let her, which wasn't nearly as often as she would like. They still had to tiptoe around Marty's schedule, since he would never knowingly allow a stranger to spend time with his daughter. _I wish I could spend more time with you,_ Joan thought.

Shame gnawed at her belly when she saw the bright smile on Lisa’s face whenever she came by. _I’m not helping her as much as I should_. Then the internal argument would begin: _You’re doing what you can now. You’re putting your cards in place ahead of time so that everything works out later._

_You’re leaving her with a monster._

But Lisa was still young, and despite Joan’s teaching attempts, she still couldn’t walk. _There’s no way Marty’s hurting her in that way,_ Joan thought. _She’s too young. He wouldn’t force himself on a baby who can’t even walk. He must have developed those disgusting feelings later._

She wasn’t sure. _How do you know? The type of man who would prey on his own child surely has no scruples. Maybe it’s already started, and you’ve lost your chance._

The thought kept her up at night.

Joan swallowed her terror and returned to Brad’s house, though he would only take them over when his dad wasn’t around. She befriended Brad’s friends, hoping they might help her in the future. She played with Lisa, taught her words, and tried to help her walk. She loved Lisa a little more every time they met, but the love was like a knife to her heart: It was a painful reminder of her own endless shortcomings.

Despite her best efforts, nothing changed.

A few days Joan after first walked Brad home, she had called CPS and camped in the bushes outside until a car pulled up to the Armstrong house. After the men walked through the dilapidated doorway, she prayed they would punish Marty and save his kids. She nearly cried when they drove away empty-handed, and when Brad went to the school with fresh bruises the next day, she hadn’t been able to hide her guilty tears; Marty blamed Brad for the call, and it was all her fault he’d gotten hurt. That night she had called CPS again, but this time nobody showed up to the house, and Brad showed up to school the next day and the one after that. Nothing had happened; he was still stuck with Marty. 

The reminder of her failure rendered Joan worthless for the next few months. She’d done nothing else besides support Brad and spend time with his friends. _If I were smarter, I’d have made a change already,_ she thought. Then: _Stop it. Don’t start Monday on a negative note._

She rested her chin against the cool wood of her desk and gazed at the clock. 7:50 a.m. School would start soon, but with Cheeks, Rick, and Sticky at the vending machines, she had no one to talk to. Time would pass slowly.

Joan was lost in her thoughts when Brad walked into the classroom.

She was surprised, firstly because he rarely showed up on time, and secondly because of his black eye and bruised limbs. She wasn’t the only one watching the slow walk to his desk; others noticed the limp in his step and the wince when he sat down. One boy eyed the purple bruises on his arms and legs with morbid fascination, while a girl stared with sympathy in her eyes. Brad paid them no mind. He hung his head and kept quiet.

After a few moments of silent conflict, Joan whispered, “Are you okay?”

He slumped over so that his eyes were cast in shadow, saying nothing. Laughter came from the front door as their friends returned from their snack run, hands stuffed with an overly sweet breakfast straight from the machines. Cheeks was talking about vanilla wafers when Sticky put a hand out before him. The three stilled, sensing something was wrong with Brad.

Rick spoke first. “Hey, are you—”

“I’m fine,” Brad said gruffly.

The boys left it at that, sliding into their seats. Joan figured she should follow their lead and wait until Brad shared his secret.

“That’s not likely,” Cheeks told her at recess, once Brad was out of earshot. “He won’t tell us anything ’til he feels ready. That could take a long time. By then he might heal up and then talking would be pointless.”

“Why doesn’t Mr. Sands do something?” Joan wrung her hands. “Doesn’t he have the — I don’t know, the legal requirement to report it?”

Rick shot her an incredulous look. “You think he cares enough about any of us to make sure we’re okay?”

“Well, he should care enough about his job to not do something that could get him fired,” Joan said. “Teachers are supposed to report abuse, but Sands didn’t even look at him this morning. He didn’t even care. Any teacher could recognize the bruises as signs of abuse. But I’ve been watching all day, and no teacher has given him as much as a second glance!”

“Get used to it,” Sticky cut in. He never spoke to her unless it was to condescend. He hung like a vulture around her conversations, swooping down whenever he had the opportunity to correct her. “People don’t care in this town. We’re on our own.”

“Well, I don’t believe that,” Joan huffed. “I’m going to call CPS.”

Sticky scowled. “You’re going to call _who?_ ”

“I’m going to call Child Protective Services,” she said. “Then someone will come by and see that what Mr. Armstrong is doing is against the law, and—”

“It’s not against the law,” Sticky scoffed. “You know, _most_ parents discipline their kids. If you arrested every parent for that—”

“Well, obviously you’ve never heard of them!” Joan snapped. Maybe he had never heard of CPS, and maybe he thought there was no hope, but he was wrong, and she was impatient. “A parent isn’t supposed to beat their kid to the point where they can barely walk anymore. There’s a difference between discipline and child abuse.”

Sticky was still glaring at her, but he looked a little doubtful. He was silent for a few moments. “You’d better tell Brad, then. Let him decide.”

Now it was Joan’s turn to scoff. “Why?”

“Because if you’re wrong, he’s the one who’s gonna get in trouble, not you!” Sticky snapped. “What if CPS doesn’t do a good job? What if they think Brad’s dad was in the right? He’s just gonna beat Brad even worse, and then it’ll be all your fault!”

He spat the words with such venom that Joan couldn’t stand to be around him anymore. She fled like a coward to the girl’s bathroom, where she splashed water over her face. _Calm down,_ she thought. _Brad’s bruises have never been this bad before. This time, the authorities can’t write it off. There’s no excuse Marty can give them to excuse why he hurt Brad so badly. Once I get home, I’m going to report this, and things will be better for Brad and Lisa._

She thought of Sticky. Maybe he had a point. Maybe Brad was in danger, and Marty hadn’t yet reached his tipping point. Her intervention could ruin everything, inciting Marty into a more violent beatdown than ever before.

Joan looked at her reflection, watched as her fat little hand slowly rose before slapping her cheek. A red handprint swelled over her pale face.

 _He’s just a kid. He doesn’t know anything,_ she thought. _You’re the adult. You know what the right thing to do is. Don’t doubt yourself._

She stayed in there for so long that the bell sounded like an explosion. The class had begun; she was late. Mr. Sands would have a field day with that one; he loved tearing her down and lording his superiority over the one student who always knew the answer.

If only she could tell him that she wasn’t as intelligent as he thought. He feared her potential, thought she was a child genius, looked at her, and saw a future he wished he had. None of his fantastical projections were within her reach; she was no more threatening than a fly.

Once this body reached adulthood, she’d be outed as normal, no more capable than any of her classmates. She would be no star scientist, no brilliant speaker, no changer of worlds. Just plain old Joan Chambers, with sour milk skin, brown cow eyes framed by black glasses, and rusty orange hair wound in two thick braids.

Nothing was more stifling than the heavy expectations of adults. They made her feel like an imposter, like the ground was crumbling beneath her.

Suddenly Joan felt sick. She didn’t want to go to class and face that dispassionate crowd of children. She didn’t want to look at Brad’s bruises and be reminded of her failures. Instead, she would go home, call CPS immediately, and put an end to this.

The campus was refreshingly quiet during class. Joan walked past the classrooms towards the front entrance, enjoying the blooming flowers and mid-morning birdsong. Only one adult spotted her, but her studious reputation afforded her lenience. He simply assumed she was headed towards the main office and turned away.

She probably should have felt guilty for cutting class, but instead, she felt only joy. What was the point of going to school when you were just going to die in an explosion anyway? What good would an education do when war and waste devoured this lush greenery, and porn became the new currency?

Joan had left the school and walked a few blocks when she heard footsteps behind her. She paid it no mind at first, busy enjoying the scenery of shops and shrubbery, but the slapping of sneakers on the pavement grew louder until she was thrown into a brick wall.

The world went blurry. Pain burst in her arms as he recognized Brad, gripping her arms and looking furious. He said nothing, but he squeezed her arms harder, nails tearing into her skin. Brad looked down, as though trying to calm himself. Vivid images of his future burst into Joan’s mind: Brad in the desert, gulping down a drug that would twist his body beyond recognition; Brad beating down every man who threatened his daughter; Brad, who burned away Buddy’s innocence until she was as hard and bitter as he. 

Her friend was dangerous. He was capable of anything, so long as he had the moral high ground, so Joan needed to find the root of his anger. “What’s wrong?” Although she wanted to sound calm, fear made her voice tremble.

Brad still didn’t meet her eyes. Shadow engulfed his downturned face until his eye sockets became two black holes shrouding his inner thoughts. “He told me.”

 _Who?_ Joan wanted to ask, but she had a feeling it was Sticky. “What did he tell you?”

Brad glared. “He said you might get me into trouble with my dad.”

Joan had to bite her cheek to suppress the anger bubbling in her stomach. She needed to stay calm and talk him down. Otherwise, he might smash her face into the bricks. “All I want is to help you,” she said. “So, I was just going to ask for help.”

She tried to move, but Brad’s hands held her still. He smelled like sweat and fear. “From who?” He asked slowly, watching her with dark suspicion.

“From CPS.”

Brad jerked her forwards before slamming her into the wall. Her head ached against the hard impact, and her back muscles burned in pain. “So, _you_ were the one who called them!”

“I-I haven’t done anything yet.” Sweat trickled down her face.

“Don’t lie to me!” Joan flinched. “You called them months ago! Dad thought I had reported him. He thought I was trying to get him in trouble!”

“But the purpose isn’t to get anyone in trouble,” Joan said. “It’s to help kids who are being hurt—”

“Bullshit,” he spat. “All it _did_ was hurt me!”

“It won’t be like that this time!” Joan said. “If they come, they’ll see how badly you’re hurt. They’ll take you and Lisa away and—”

“Don’t talk about Lisa!” Brad dug his nails into her skin, drawing blood.

“Okay, I won’t!” Joan swallowed hard, struggling to think of the right thing to say. Brad’s grip didn’t falter, and she realized she’d have to wear long sleeves to cover up the bruises. 

He didn’t say anything for a long time. As the moments passed, her heart beat in tandem with the throbbing waves of pain throughout her body. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” she said. “I won’t call them!”

Finally, Brad showed an emotion other than rage. His eyebrows raised in disbelief. “You won’t?”

“I promise!” She said, desperate for him to let go. “I swear I won’t call them. I’m sorry for thinking of it, Brad.”

He looked at her intensely, trying to find a trace of manipulation, but the trembling girl with sweat and tears pouring down her face was clearly no threat. “You should be,” he said.

Joan nodded like a bobblehead, willing to say whatever it took to appease him. Her back and arms ached. When he didn’t say anything for a few minutes, she whispered, “Hey, Brad? Can you please let me go?”

“Oh.”

He released her arms, and sure enough, dry blood and scratch marks scarred her skin. All Joan wanted to do was flee, but sudden movements might trigger Brad into another episode. Never before had she looked at him and felt fear, but maybe she should have seen this coming. Arrogance had stopped her from thinking clearly. She wasn’t special enough to change him. It was stupid of her to think she could have had a big impact through her friendship alone. Five months meant nothing to someone like Brad, who couldn’t tell his lifelong friends about his mother’s death until months after the fact. He was slow to trust, and it was likely that now, any faith he had in her was shattered.

Joan licked her chapped lips as she took slow, backward steps. Brad frowned. “Aren’t you going back to class?”

“No,” she said. “I feel like if I went back, I would have a panic attack!”

“A what?”

“Never mind! Ha, ha, ha!” Joan laughed hysterically. She clamped her hand over her mouth to hide the manic energy in her voice. “I think I’ll just go home and sleep.”

“But it’s so early. How can you be tired?”

Joan took another step back. “I don’t sleep just because I’m tired. It’s a good way to pass the day.”

He came closer. “Why would you do that?”

“Sometimes I sleep when I’m sad, or overwhelmed,” Joan said, widening the gap between them. “It just, um — it shuts the brain off, ha, ha, you know what I mean?” She laughed again, a grating, desperate sound, when Brad followed her.

“I get it,” he said. “Hey, why are you walking like that?”

“Like what?” She ran her tongue over dried lips.

“In that weird way.”

“Oh, I just want to go home!” Joan said it with a saccharine smile so he wouldn’t be offended. “Actually, I’m gonna head over now. Bye!”

Her heart pounded in her chest, and after a few steps away, her throat felt dry from either thirst or tension. She nearly had a heart attack when Brad popped up. “I’ll go with you,” he said, falling into step with her.

“Are you sure? Don’t you want to go to class?”

He frowned. “What’s the point? I’m not going to learn anything.”

Joan’s gaze stayed on the road ahead; she wasn’t sure if she felt comfortable looking at his face again. “You don’t know that,” she said quietly.

Brad shrugged. They walked on for a few moments, Joan puzzling over what had just happened, trying to adjust her goal now that this newfound mistrust had thrown a wrench in her plans. She would have to be better at thinking on her feet if Brad’s emotions would be a wild card from now on.

Calling CPS wasn’t a plan she would abandon. It was an important resource that could change the course of Brad and Lisa’s lives for the better. _Sticky’s just an ignorant nobody,_ she thought, blood pressure rising at the thought of his sneering rat face. _Stupid people fear what they don’t understand, and he spread that fear onto Brad. I’m not going to let his ignorance poison my friend's future._

She cast a sideways glance towards Brad. _Maybe I should have my own future in mind, too,_ she thought. If she did report Marty to the authorities, she may need to prepare for retaliation. Clearly, Brad didn’t understand anything about the organization, and Joan feared that if she tried to explain it, he might turn violent again.

 _I hate that I have to walk on eggshells around him._ He hadn’t told her about what they’d done during game night. It was Cheeks and Rick who excitedly told her about how they’d all helped Lisa. It was Cheeks and Rick whose faces fell into confusion when they wondered why Brad showed up to school battered.

“We did so much,” Cheeks told her earlier. “We really helped her, and it was kind of impressive, especially since we did it all by ourselves.”

“I don’t know why Brad’s dad would hurt him,” Rick said. “Like, was he mad that Brad asked for help? But what was he supposed to do? Stay at home and worry, all by himself? What if something bad had happened?”

“Yeah!” Cheeks said, nodding vigorously. “Two heads are better than one, right? How about four heads?”

Their words bounced around Joan’s brain. To ask Brad what had enraged Marty was out of the question. It was probably something minuscule; his father had a hair-trigger temper.

Cars buzzed by: brown vans stuffed with harried parents, yellow taxis ferrying businessmen, and one hideous, ancient, tiny crimson car with duct tape holding up its side-view mirrors. The eyesore caught Joan’s eye as it lurched down the street, coughing up gas as it approached them. The man driving the car was equally ugly: His bald head looked greasy above a pair of old, smudged sunglasses, and his enormous, Hawaiian shirt was riddled with stains.

Joan recognized him at the exact moment that Marty saw his son.

“Brad!” His scream was loud enough to make both children jump a foot into the air. Marty pulled the rickety car to an abrupt stop, and horns blared through the air as cars in the slow lane swerved to avoid hitting him. He rolled the window down and called out: “What the _fuck_ are you doing outside of school?”

Joan couldn't believe she was seeing him in the flesh. Although she knew what he had become, and she knew where his life would lead, looking into his eyes was an out-of-body experience. She had built him up as a grotesque monster in her head, focusing on the evils he would inflict, but now that she saw him, she felt heartache rather than righteous anger. _He's changed so much since I died,_ she thought. Her heart drooped with disappointment, but she wiped those feelings away when she saw Brad trembling. _I have to be strong for him._ She took a deep breath and lit up her face in a megawatt smile, hurrying over to the car, acting like nothing was wrong.

“Hello there!” She said excitedly, pretending Marty hadn’t just screamed at them in broad daylight. “It’s so nice to finally meet you!”

“What?” He turned to his son. “Who the hell is this, and why is she with you?”

Brad was frozen, so Joan resumed her merry voice, trying to blast the tension away through the force of saccharine insincerity. “I’m Joan, his classmate. Our teacher sent us off on an errand, but we’ll be back to class soon.”

Marty was clearly pissed, but he stayed in the car, disarmed by her unrelenting cheer. Joan met his perplexed face with a smiling mask before stepping away. “Well, we don’t want to keep Mr. Sands waiting!” She said. “Goodbye, sir!”

Although she’d started to leave, Brad stayed put, standing as still as a statue. When he didn’t respond to her call, Joan gently linked her arm in his, pulling him forward. That seemed to break him out of his spell. “Come on, Brad,” she whispered. “Let’s go.”

After a few steps away, the car door slammed shut. “Wait just a minute,” Marty called out.

Joan pulled her arm back and shielded Brad. Now she was a barrier between the two. If Marty wanted to get to Brad, he’d have to hit her, and if he hit her, witnesses would support her in court. People sitting at the café across the street would surely notice. Perhaps a passing driver would pull over. Unlike Brad, she didn’t have to swallow his abuse, since she wasn’t his kid. If he tried anything, she’d run to her parents for help. _Hopefully, it won’t come to that, though._ Brad’s welts still stung her arms.

“Yes, sir?” Anger boiled in Joan’s stomach, but expressing it could get her slapped, so she painted whimsy over her rage and hoped Marty wouldn’t see through the cracks.

He lifted his smudged sunglasses and squinted at her. “Are you two friends?”

“Yes, sir.” Joan’s feelings were conflicted on that front, but she’d have to sort it out later.

Marty didn’t look convinced. “Do you go to game night?”

Brad stiffened behind her, but Joan didn’t know why. “Sometimes.”

Marty licked his lips. “Were you with them last time?”

Now she understood Brad’s fear. Joan took a deep breath and stood to her full height, which was meager compared to Marty’s tall, thick stature. Unsure of what to say, Joan just smiled at him and tried to think of the perfect response. Saying “no” would be the end of it, but what if saying “yes” helped Brad?

She took a chance. “Yes, sir. I also met Lisa when Brad brought her over.”

Brad took in a sharp breath just as Marty exhaled through his nose, fanning foul breath across her face. “Hmmm,” he said. “You met my daughter, did you. And how did she look to you?”

 _Like an angel,_ she could say. But then Marty could snap that she was sick and use it against her. _She looked terrible,_ Joan could say, referencing her sickness, but then Marty might interpret it as an insult. She wanted to clear Brad of any blame. She wanted to take on all of the guilt. “I was so grateful that Brad brought her to Rick's house. I've been wanting to see her for _forever_ ,” she babbled. “I’ve always wanted a little sister, and I’ve been begging him to let me meet her. When he left, I asked him to please bring Lisa over so I could finally meet her! So, you see, the reason she left the house was because of me. It's all my f—”

Marty stepped closer, leaning over her. Under his shadow, Joan could smell the ghastly tang of old cigarettes, body odor, and last night’s booze. “You called our house?” He demanded.

Joan froze, caught in a lie. _What if the phone’s disconnected because he doesn’t pay the electricity bill?_ But that couldn't be true; Marty was always watching TV. She decided to stand her ground and stick with her lie. "Y-yes."

“How often do you call the house?”

 _Uh, never,_ she thought. But she said, “Not often.”

“Don’t call the house anymore.”

“Sure thing.” Joan’s face hurt from smiling. He seemed to believe her, for most of the anger dissolved from his coarse features. “Thank you so much for your patience and understanding. It was nice to see her sweet, little face, even if she was a little under the weather. Luckily, I'm really good with babies, and we all took good care of her, so she should make a full recovery soon.” Hopefully, simpering would flatter his ego and make him more susceptible to her lies. Marty finally leaned back, and Joan was relieved to be free of his shadow. She laid it on thick: “I’m so grateful that you were generous enough to let me finally meet her, even if she was feeling a bit sick.”

Was it accurate? No. But it seemed to work. Marty grinned as he scratched his corpulent chin, liking the narrative that he was a generous father indulging a dumb girl who wanted to meet his baby. “Shit, thank _you.”_ He chuckled. “It’s good to be appreciated.”

“You’re welcome. It was nice to meet you. Now, Brad and I should really go—”

“You know, if you liked seeing Lisa so much, I can let you come back.” Marty’s voice was lower now, suggesting something Joan couldn’t understand. He smirked like he’d said something clever, and Joan smiled back politely, her mind blank. “We could use a female around the house.”

“Oh!” Joan gasped, and this time her emotions were genuine. She never considered the possibility of working with Marty. She always imagined that the only way she could see Lisa would be behind his back. If she took up his offer, she could rescue Lisa right from under his nose. “I would love to help you out. Like a babysitter!”

Marty laughed at that, and an enormous hand thumped down onto her head. It hurt, but Marty didn’t seem to care when she flinched and struggled to get away; he gripped her head and kept her in place. “I like your enthusiasm, kid,” he said, grinning humorlessly. A knowing look flashed in his beady eyes as he held her still by the scalp. For a moment, Joan was terrified that he might recognize her, but finally, he let her go. Once he got back into his car, he smirked at her, ignoring his son completely. “I’ll see you real soon.”

His ratty old car tore down the streets, cutting off other drivers and nearly running a red light.

Brad stared at her in disbelief. “Why did you do that?”

“I told you," Joan said. “I just want to help you.”

"This better not be a trick," Brad said. "You better not think of going behind my back and—"

"You don't have to worry about anything. I'm a woman of my word," Joan said. Brad wrinkled his nose, irked by a young, squeaky-voiced child referring to herself as a woman. Luckily, he didn't say anything: He walked away without another word, leaving her alone beside the buzzing traffic.

Cars whooshed by and horns blared at one another. Joan stared over the traffic, but her eyes took in nothing.

She wished she could have told Brad, but he could never understand. Working in the monster’s lair was a golden opportunity she refused to squander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may be wondering why Brad got violent with Joan. I tend to idealize characters I care about, like Brad, but I didn't think it was fair to his character if I depicted him as a flawless, doting older brother and teacher. Austin Jorgensen did a great job with making Brad complex and flawed despite his admirable qualities, and I wanted to reflect that in my story. As Joan says, Brad's capable of anything if he feels he's morally right. He's got heroic traits, but he's also an abused kid with trust issues, and since he's so young, he has trouble expressing himself as calmly as he should, which is why he resorts to violence when Sticky tells him about what she's going to do. It's like a telephone game of miscommunication that culminates in a scary showdown that makes Joan re-evaluate their relationship. 
> 
> Interestingly, Joan doesn't fully blame Brad for hurting her: Instead, she puts the blame on Sticky, because it's easier to blame an outside party than accept the fact that someone she loves is capable of hurting her. Although Joan's parents in this life are loving and supportive, she bears the scars and abuse-survivor-mindset from her past life, which bleeds into her current life and affects the way she perceives reality.


	7. Brad IV

Nothing made sense anymore.

Ever since mom passed away and dad turned evil, Brad fell into a familiar pattern that helped him cope with life’s changes. Once he passed the threshold of his house, he would fall silent, unless it was to mutter, “Yes, sir” or give dad whatever answer he wanted to hear. He would do his homework, sneak out the back door to do karate, take care of Lisa, and, more often than he cared to admit, cry himself to sleep.

It didn’t make him feel good, but it was numbing in its repetitiveness. He got used to being quiet in his house, became accustomed to the cackling TV and heavy solemnity. 

Joan broke his pattern. When she came by — usually two or three times a week — she brought her pushy and inquisitive nature to Brad’s home, spurring him to speak and smile as they worked together to care for Lisa. Some things never changed; Brad was quiet and blank whenever his father was in eyesight, but Joan would lead him away from that suffocating presence to private places where he felt free to be himself. If she noticed the yellowed, peeling paint on the walls, or the effervescent reek of stale puke and liquor stains, she never said a thing. She became more doting than ever, holding Lisa close, kissing her cheeks, and calling her pet names. 

Joan wasn’t quite motherly, but she coddled and cosseted his sister the way a loving grandma might. Brad had never met Grandma Armstrong, since she died before he was born. In the rare times when dad mentioned his mother, he spoke with a tender fondness that bordered on worshipful. “She would have loved you kids,” dad said once, after a few bottles of beer. Brad liked to imagine dad was right, and grandma would have loved them unconditionally. Unfortunately, Joan was the closest thing to a female role model his little sister had.

As Lisa grew like a sapling in the spring, so too did her longing for outside exploration. Although she couldn’t speak in full sentences yet, Lisa communicated her desires clearly. Little hands would grab Brad’s shirt and pull him outside so they could play. Initially, he was hesitant to draw dad’s ire, but he learned that Marty wouldn’t protest if Lisa stayed out of the neighbors’ sight. After that, he would run and play with his sister under the endless blue sky.

On days when she came to visit, Joan would join in their games, staining her jeans with grass and mud. She made flower bracelets for Lisa, pointed out the caterpillars and the birds. Lisa adored every second she spent outside. She loved to brighten up her shabby room with flowers, loved to run near the river that flowed through their property. She was a ball of energy who exhausted them after their games, but she loved lying on the grass and watching clouds once playtime ended. It was on one of these days that Joan looked over at Brad and said, “I need to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

Her brown eyes were disarmingly serious. “I want you to know that, no matter what happens, I’ll always be your friend. No matter what you do, no matter how much time passes without us seeing each other… I’ll always support you.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about? We see each other every day in school.”

Joan shook her head. “I mean when we’re older. When I start working, I’m gonna be really busy, and I won’t be able to see you and Lisa as often as I’d like. You may go months, or even years without seeing me, and I — I don’t want you to forget about me, okay? I don’t want you to ever think that I don’t care about you.”

“That’s so far away,” he said. “You won’t start working until you’re 18, at least. Why are you worried about that?”

Joan turned her gaze to the light blue sky above. “It’s not _that_ far away,” she muttered. “Life goes by so quickly...and besides, I already have a job lined up.”

“Seriously?” Brad blinked. “How?” 

“I met a man. We...talked.” Joan frowned at the clouds. “And he said once I get older, he’ll allow me to serve him.”

“He’ll _allow_ you to serve him?” Brad scoffed. It sounded like something a king would say to a peasant. “What kind of job is it?”

Joan shook her head. “It would take too long to explain. But it’s something I need to do. Something I think could change our futures for the better. I’m lucky for this opportunity. I’m lucky he’s taking a chance on me.”

“You don’t look very happy.”

Her large, brown eyes flickered to his face. “I’m not looking forward to it. But it’s my destiny.”

Brad’s brow furrowed. “Come again?”

“You’re my destiny, too.” Before Brad could tell her just how strange a statement that was, she went on. “We’re connected by fate, you know. And blood. God put me back on earth to help you and save the world.”

Brad sat up. “Are you on drugs?”

Joan gasped. “Of course not!” She spluttered. “Why would you say that?”

“You sound crazy.” He squinted at her. “Did you drink some of dad’s beer?”

“No, I didn’t.” Joan wrinkled her nose. “Not today, at least. But your dad...last time I was here, he made me taste a little bit. It was awful.”

Her words sparked a memory he’d forgotten. “It really is.” Brad leaned over to pet Lisa’s hair. She lay on the grass between them, cuddled into his side, long black hair splayed over the blades of grass. Tired from their earlier game of tag, she was now nearly asleep: her eyes were closed, and her chest rose slowly. Brad lowered his voice. “One time, dad tried to make me taste some of his beer. Said it would put hair on my chest, make me a man. I took one sip and gagged. He was so mad he stomped out. I was alone in the house—”

“I wish he would leave us alone,” Joan muttered. “Go on another stupid bender. Then I could take you and Lisa to my house and you can have a good, healthy, home-cooked meal for once.”

“Dad would never let Lisa leave.”

Joan’s face darkened. “I know. But I’m still mad that he’s always around. I don’t like him.”

Brad raised his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t have known. You’re so nice to him.”

“I have to be. For you.” The back of Joan’s hand caressed Lisa’s cheek. “And her.”

“Well, you’re probably the reason he hasn’t left in a while.” Brad put an arm behind his head, watching the drifting clouds. “He likes you. I think you calm him down.”

“He only likes me because I’m familiar.”

“ _Familiar?_ He just met you.”

Joan’s eyes became serious again. “Brad, I told you: we’re connected by blood. Your father and I—”

“Will you stop with that weird shit?” He snapped. Then Joan’s sad expression made him feel guilty. It was easy to be short with her since she spoke so much nonsense, but she was never mean or disparaging. Her long, pale face wore a clownish expression of shame, so now he felt like he’d kicked a puppy. “Anyway, I was gonna tell you a story.”

“Okay.” Joan lay down on the grass again, turning her brown eyes to the wispy world above. “Tell me.”

“So, after my dad left, I decided to try the beer again. He left a full bottle behind… but it still tasted really bad. I wanted to enjoy it as much as he does. I thought sugar would make it taste better.”

Joan’s jaw dropped. “You put _sugar_ in it?”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t good. So I thought, ‘Another drink that’s bad is coffee. And you put cream in coffee to make it taste better.’ So I put some cream in it, too.”

“What did it taste like?”

“Death and ass.”

When Joan laughed, she snorted like a pig. “Oh my God! What did you do with it?”

“I poured the rest of it out and threw the bottle away. Then I told dad, when he came back, that I drank it all.”

“What did he do?”

“He patted my head and said, ‘Good man.’” Brad frowned. “That was a long time ago. Mom… mom was mad when she heard about it. But later on, she laughed like you.”

“Was this before Lisa was born?”

Brad nodded. “Yeah, a few months before.”

“You were 11, right? I can’t believe he gave you beer when you were so young!”

“...Actually, I was 10 at the time.”

“That’s even worse!” Joan shook her head. Thick red braids flopped over her shoulders and smacked her chubby cheeks. “So, you’re… how old now?”

“I’ll be 12 in August.”

“So young!” Joan hugged her knees to her chest. “Much too young…”

“Aren’t you a whole year younger than me?”

Joan blinked. “Wait, how do you know that?”

“You skipped a grade. We all knew about it. Remember when Mr. Sands introduced you to the class?”

“No, not at all.” She looked perplexed, like he was speaking in tongues. “I thought you didn’t even know I existed.”

He shrugged. “Of course I knew you existed. We just weren’t friends back then.”

“I’m glad that’s changed.” Joan grinned. “I’m happy that I can hang out with you now. And I hope we’ll always be friends, no matter what happens.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Brad yawned. “We should head back. It’s getting late.”

They walked through the long-dead garden and stepped in through the backdoor. Brad liked going the long way around so they could avoid the living room. They set Lisa down and Joan left with a polite goodbye to dad. Joan always wore a smile that was strained at the corners when he was around. Although she claimed to hate Brad’s father, she was unfailingly demure and quiet in his presence, refusing to meet his gaze. 

Dad ate it up. Most people in town thought he was a washed-up loser, and his filthy dress and manner did little to inspire respect or admiration. Joan was one of the few people Brad had ever seen treating his dad well. He should have known dad would start giving her special treatment.

One day, Brad walked downstairs to find Joan in a deep conversation with dad. He could see the backs of their heads, illuminated by the glaring light of the TV screen. Brad lingered in the doorway and listened in, but nothing they said made sense.

“She was so good to me. So gentle n’ loving…then my old man caught us. Tried to put a stop to it.” Dad spoke with the telltale slur of several drinks. “Got into her head, twisted her up, made her think she was wrong…”

“What was she wrong about?” Joan asked.

“Nothing!” Dad shouted. “Everything she did, I asked for.”

Joan should have let it go after that outburst, but it seemed curiosity overpowered her self-preservation. “What was your father’s problem, then?”

Dad heaved a huge sigh. “He just didn’t understand us.”

“So…you never felt like she hurt you, or took advantage of you?”

Dad snorted. “Shit, I wanted her to do _m_ _ore._ That’s how parents show their love.” He took another swig as Joan sputtered, so shocked she could barely speak.

“I-I-I don’t think that’s true at all! Your dad was right! He—”

“—knew jack shit about me, and even less about her. His morals were fucking worthless. Everything we did was wrong and everything he did was perfect. You can’t believe a man like that. He’d beat her bloody and then turn around and yell that she was sick. He was wrong. Dead wrong!”

“B-but, he’s not the only one who thinks it’s wrong for parents to—”

“He and everyone else who thinks that way can fuck off into the sunset, for all I care!” Dad snapped. “I’m not hearing another word about this.” Joan started sniffling, and Brad saw dad’s head move closer to her. “Why the hell are you crying?”

Joan hiccuped through her tears. “I just feel so guilty about what happened to you!” Her next words were engulfed by rough sobs, so she had to wait a few moments to catch her breath. “I’m so sorry, Martin…I’m so, so sorry…”

Dad sighed. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

But Joan kept crying and babbling apologies. “I was so wrong, and I'm so sorry…can you ever forgive me?”

“Lemme just…take that drink back. You’ve had a little too much.” There was silence for a few moments as Joan continued to cry. “You’ve got a lot to learn. Good thing I’m here to teach you.”

Brad had heard enough. Confused, he turned around and stepped up the stairs, but he couldn’t focus on his homework. He kept turning Joan’s words over in his mind, wondering why she was apologizing and what she and dad had been talking about. Unable to focus, he went into Lisa’s room. “Hey,” he said. Lisa’s blue-green eyes lit up when she saw him, and she reached over the crib.

“Hey, Brad!” She squealed in her sweet, high-pitched voice. Even though she was barely 16 months old, she was the only person in the house who made any sense. She gurgled with joy when he picked her up and cradled her, petting his cheeks with her soft little hands. Brad closed his eyes and sang her one of mom’s old lullabies.

_“From this valley they say you are going, I will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile, For they say you are taking the sunshine, That has brightened our pathway the while…”_

Lisa was dozing off by the time the song was over. She would have fallen into slumber if dad’s ear-rattling scream didn’t jerk her eyes open.

“BRAD!” Marty’s voice was as hard as a beer bottle to the skull. Brad raced downstairs. “Walk Joan home tonight. I wanna make sure my girl gets home safe.” He gave her an ugly smile that made her shrink back and cover her face. Without a word, Brad nodded and walked with her under twilight skies. Joan was mouse-quiet the whole time, staggering but refusing his help. At one point, she excused herself to vomit into a bush.

When they reached her house, Joan’s parents welcomed him in for dinner, and Brad once again marveled at how light and cheerful her home was. As Mr. and Mrs. Chambers chattered about how nice it was that she had a friend over, Brad couldn’t help but notice the way she moved her food around her plate, eating nothing. Her pale, solemn face looked like it had aged by three decades. Joan looked like a ghost.

He thought she would stop coming after that, but she dutifully returned as often as she could. No matter how hard Brad tried to see things from her perspective, he could never understand why she kept coming back, even after that night. He never asked what happened, and she never told him. She just kept smiling that strained smile that didn’t reach her eyes, helping with Lisa and encouraging him and coming back, week after week, month after month. 

_Maybe she really is crazy,_ Brad thought. 

Sometimes, when Joan came around, she would slither around the house like a spy on a top-secret mission, moving things around and hiding packages when she thought no one was looking. The first time Brad caught her, she was placing a plastic baggie beneath the kitchen sink. He didn’t call her out on it; instead, he took it out when she left — but it was just a bag full of flour. It made no sense. Could it have been a gift because they were poor? But then, why would she hide it behind the rusty pipes? She had been so careful to put it somewhere no one would see it. 

Another time, Brad caught Joan hiding a bag of sugar underneath Lisa’s crib. He sniffed it when she left, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. Unsure of what she was doing, he set it back in its hiding place, but he still felt uneasy. Joan did a lot of strange things — what was she doing when he wasn’t looking? The only reason he’d caught her in the first place was because he overheard her strange whispering.

“You’re going to live a long and happy life.” Brad peeked through the door, which was mostly closed, and found her cradling his sister. “You won’t be like me. You will never surrender, I’ll make sure of it. You’re my second chance…”

After she gave her strange, cryptic message, Joan set Lisa down and hid the sugar. Brad wanted nothing more than to barge in and ask what the hell she was doing — but he was afraid she might not come back if he did. Whether or not Joan was crazy, she made his life more bearable. As strange as Joan was, she was unfailingly loyal and true to her word; she never called any organizations to get him in trouble. Instead, she seemed to content herself with hanging around the house and hiding her little packages. 

Still, she was far from his favorite friend. That honor went to Rick, who was kind enough to throw Brad a birthday party in August. It was hosted at Rick’s home, which was fine by Brad, because the Weeks family made him feel safe and welcome. They treated him like a second son and smiled when they saw him. If it weren’t for his sister, Brad would probably move into their house and never leave.

As Lisa grew older, she became bolder as well as greedy with people’s time. One day, she waddled over to dad’s couch and pressed the off button on the TV remote. “Daddy play!” She yelled, and dad slapped her, straight in the face. She screamed and sobbed after that, inconsolable.

Brad had to rush her upstairs and hold her tight so she would stop bothering dad. She was too young to accept the life she’d been born into, sulking for days, until dad woke up in a good mood and gave her a treat. Dad had even _apologized_ as he bounced her on his knee. Lisa perked up at this and giggled in pleasure. He also promised never to hit her again.

It was a lie. He smacked her often, though never when Joan was around. It made Brad angry because if dad had the restraint not to hit her when they had company, he should have stopped altogether.

But if he voiced his thoughts, he’d get another black eye, so when Lisa cried after being hurt, Brad would scoop her up and take her away. On more nights than he could count, he put her to bed and watched her cry, choking on his own incompetence. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he patted her, pulled the covers over her frail, shaking body, and left.

Living in this house was exhausting. In contrast, Rick’s home was heaven. He started to spend more and more time at Rick’s house, basking in the warmth of a kind and supportive environment. But guilt gnawed at him: In his absence, Marty and Lisa were alone together. Eventually, he would return with his tail between his knees.

Things got better once the new school year began. When September rolled around, Brad started to enjoy going to class. It helped that their new teacher wasn’t a flaming asshole who mocked the kids. Joan seemed to revive her old self as well, speaking up in class and making everyone groan with her long-winded answers.

Then there were the fighting lessons, which Brad had started improvising. He remembered very little of what Grandpa Armstrong had taught him, and soon he’d exhausted his memory of fighting moves. Luckily, he had a wealth of imagination to fall upon, and as his friends would roughhouse in the woods after school, he found himself growing proud when he saw how much they were learning, how much they enjoyed the Armstrong style.

“There’s no better feeling than owning your own dojo, son,” Grandpa Armstrong told him long ago, the first time Brad saw the mats, the mirrors, the powerful men fighting one another. “You know why that is?”

“Um…” Brad looked around, marveling at the inside. To him, it seemed enormous and magical. “Because it’s all yours?”

“Close. Because it’s an opportunity to lead.” Grandpa Armstrong put his hand on Brad’s back and led him forward, where a teacher was instructing a row of teenagers. “Leadership builds you into a better man. It teaches you how to work with people and make them better, too.”

Brad couldn’t remember what he said after that, but he recalled his grandpa letting out a deep laugh and rustling his hair. He remembered the rush of warmth that ran throughout his body, as well as the newfound admiration for the art of teaching. _Someday, I want to be just like that,_ he thought. When the dojo shut down and grandpa moved, Brad figured that career was out of reach. Now, however, he realized that his dream was coming to life, albeit in a different way than he imagined. Instead of teaching children once he was an adult, he was just a young kid teaching his friends. 

Since they were mostly his same age, he couldn’t rely on power and superiority to make them respect him as a teacher. Instead, he had to lead them through the power of his personality and techniques. Over time, he learned to encourage them and correct their errors with kind suggestions. He was far from perfect, but it was a two-way learning experience filled with fun. Brad's mind wandered back to his long-forgotten dream of upholding the Armstrong tradition and teaching martial arts professionally. If he couldn't work for grandpa, perhaps Brad could start his own dojo, right here. He already had loyal customers in the form of his best friends.

The idea filled him with hope, something he hadn't felt in a long time. He clung to the memory of grandpa's dojo and of the noble words he'd imparted before disappearing.

Grandpa’s idea of manhood was better than dad’s. Dad thought drinking beer and being cruel is what makes a man, but grandpa taught Brad that a man is a good leader who helps other people improve. Dad could say nasty things about grandpa until he turned blue in the face. He could throw every letter and package with Edwin Armstrong’s name into the garbage. But he could never wipe away Brad’s memories of the kind, strong and inspiring man he knew.

When Brad worked with his friends, teaching them martial arts and self-defense, he felt close to his grandpa, even though he was a hundred miles away.

The idea helped him through the long nights when his self-hating thoughts kept him up. Even if he never saw grandpa again, Brad could make him proud by growing into a better man than his father.


	8. Sticky II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! ❤️ I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Sticky especially loved learning martial arts. As he and his friends practiced in the woods, throwing kicks and punches against imaginary enemies, they learned how to defend themselves with the Armstrong style.

So, when an after-school baseball game was interrupted by a gruff “Howdy, motherfuckers,” Sticky and his friends were prepared.

Chris Columbo and his gang of so-called “Gents” stood by the edge of the dirt diamond like a pack of wolves fresh from the hunt. The last time Brad's gang was ambushed, Columbo used his stolen ball as an excuse for the beatdown. This time, the sneer on his face made it clear that he wasn’t here for revenge; the Gents simply wanted a fight, and they figured Brad’s gang would make perfect punching bags.

When he saw them, Sticky immediately tensed. His mind went back to that day, months ago, when he’d gone blank after being beaten by those same smug boys. Then he watched Brad, their unofficial leader, stand up to his full height and glare at Chris. For a few moments, nobody moved; then Chris walked closer to Brad, and the two boys stood nose-to-nose in an angry standoff.

Sticky was playing as an outfielder, so he was too far away to hear what Chris was saying. But he heard the sharp smack of Brad’s fist against Chris’s face, and then it was _on_.

He rushed forwards, trying to reach Brad before he got tackled, but Larry and Sergei jumped on him before he could get over. Then pineapple-haired Tom Cream joined the Brad-based dogpile. Sticky screamed some wild, nonsensical war cry to amp himself up as he jerked Larry by the back of his shirt and Cheeks grabbed Sergei; they pulled the boys off of Brad, who now wrestled on the ground with Tom.

Soon there was an all-out brawl on the sandlot. In-between ducks and punches, Sticky saw Chris throw Rick to the ground, but the blue-eyed boy jumped to his feet before Chris could kick his stomach. Satisfaction ran through Sticky’s system when he saw the shock on Chris’s face, and it only got better when Rick threw a punch straight into that shit-eating grin. Sure, it wasn’t the strongest punch in the world, but he had the element of surprise on his side since he'd never before attacked Columbo, who constantly mocked him for being a "weak little bitch." Now he was eating his words, and when Rick threw him to the ground in a sweeping low kick, Chris ate a mouthful of dust, too.

Sticky’s attention shifted when a fist slammed his abdomen, stealing the air from his lungs. He staggered backward, then fell when Tom and Larry tag-teamed him. 

“Hang on, dude!” Cheeks yelled. He and Brad ran over and started wailing on the boys’ backs, distracting them so Sticky could recover. For a moment, he drank in his friends’ support; then he threw a sequence of Armstrong-style punches, sending one of the boys to the ground, groaning. 

“Uncle! Uncle!” Larry yelled. His black bowl cut was stained with dirt. Soon his long-haired friend Sergei joined him on the ground, though he refused to give up, writhing and swearing as they kicked him. 

Rick was running towards them, with Columbo hot on his heels. For all of the weakness in Rick’s punches, he was as fleet-footed as a fox, and soon he was twenty feet ahead of Chris. Then, Sticky watched as sweet, sheltered Rick, the quintessential Good Christian Boy, dropped his trousers and mooned Columbo, who froze in shock. Brad dashed over and threw a punch, hitting again and again until the bully would have two black eyes beneath his sunglasses.

By the end of the battle, everyone was busted up and bruised. It was the first time a fight between their gangs ended in a draw rather than a massacre, so despite the aching in Sticky’s stomach, he felt light with pleasure and pride.

Columbo’s gang slunk away yelling threats, but Sticky and Cheeks slung profanities and threats right back at them, their middle fingers in the air as the Gents retreated.

It was a glorious victory: Brotherhood prevailed, and they’d proven themselves men who could hold their own in a fight.

“ _Hell yeah!_ ” Cheeks yelled, pumping his fist in the air. “Take that, assholes!”

“That was amazing,” Rick breathed, his pale eyes wide with barely-hidden glee. “I can’t believe we got them to leave us alone!”

“I can’t believe you mooned Chris!” Sticky laughed. “I don’t remember Brad teaching us to flash our cheeks.”

Rick blushed, and Brad let out a snicker. “I think you found your special move, huh?” He teased.

“I mean—as long as it works, right?” Rick’s hands flew to his face, trying to hide his embarrassed grin.

“You’re a genius, dude,” Cheeks told him. "I'm gonna do that next time."

"But then, you won't have the element of surprise," Sticky said. "Since Rick already did it."

"Oh, dang, you're right." Cheeks thought for a moment. "So we gotta spice it up. Maybe we can, like, do a combo move?"

"What would _that_ be like?" Rick wondered. "Would we just drop our pants at the same time?"

"Yeah! I mean, imagine it. There's an enemy before us. We get to either side of him, ok? Then we slam our asses into him _—_ _at the same time!_ No one could withstand that! Hell, they might even give up once they see what we're willing to do." 

Rick smiled as he shook his head. "I can't even imagine that."

"Dude, we have to try it! We can call it the Weeks and Cheeks connection!"

Rick's knees buckled from hard laughter, and he leaned against a cackling Sticky so he wouldn't fall down. Cheeks then turned his excited eyes towards Brad. “It’s all thanks to you, man! We couldn’t have fought back like that without all your help.”

Sticky clapped Brad on the back before his friend could start acting humble. "He's right! Thanks so much for sharing your family’s secret style with us.”

Brad smiled. “You’re welcome, but it’s not really a secret. Grandpa used to teach students in his dojo before he moved away. I guess I’m just… picking up where he left off.”

“Sounds like you’re making him proud then,” Sticky said. Then, for some reason, Brad’s dark eyes got wet, and he looked down. “Hey man, you okay?”

“Yeah, I—” Brad’s voice hitched with a barely-restrained sob, and Sticky stilled, unsure of what to do. He’d never seen Brad cry before, not even when he was beaten black and blue, not even when he talked about his rotten dad or his dead mom. Seeing him cry was surreal, unnatural, like a chicken in a submarine. Sticky locked eyes with Cheeks; both of them were frozen in uncertainty, but Rick, the softest of them all, stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Brad.

“It’s okay,” he said, his own blue eyes shiny with sympathy. Brad hugged him back, digging his round face into his best friend's shoulder.

Now that someone else took the lead, Cheeks joined in. "I'm getting in on this!" He declared, throwing his arms around Rick and Brad.

 _What the hell is going on?_ Sticky wondered. They’d never hugged Brad; they rarely even hugged each other. He stood by for a second, wondering what had possessed his friends; then Cheeks grabbed his shirt and jerked him forward, so he had no choice but to lean into the group embrace.

It was the sweetest feeling he’d known for a long time, and soon Sticky relaxed, drinking in the support and warmth he felt from his friends. When they pulled apart and left for their respective homes, he was sad to see them go. He forgot to hide his smile as he entered the Angoneli house. “What the fuck are you smirking at?” Dad demanded.

“Nothing,” Sticky said. He headed upstairs and sat on his bed, still happy despite dad's brusqueness. Something had changed, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Life didn’t give blessings often, but when she did, she was generous. The next day, Sticky walked to school with a spring in his step, eager to congratulate his friends on their martial prowess.

After Brad's gang gave the Gents the what-for, they were happier than they'd been in a long time, laughing in class despite their bruises. Cheeks was especially excited about his and Rick's potential tag-team move, and he lit up when talking about it. "So, ya see, here's what it's gonna be," he told Joan the next day. "Rick drops his pants, and so do I, right? So we get on either side of whoever we're fighting, and we attack him with our asses! It's brilliant!"

"I'm sorry, _what?_ Why would you even do that?" Joan laughed so hard she had to take off her glasses and wipe her eyes. "I don't even understand _how_ that would work. How could you attack someone with your pants down? Wouldn't you trip?"

Cheeks cocked his head. "Why would we trip?"

"Because your pants would be around your ankles!"

"Well—I mean—even if they were, we wouldn't trip." He scoffed at the idea.

"No one's _that_ nimble," Joan said, smiling. "Even if you have the element of surprise on your side, bare-butted and all, you'll lose that advantage cause you’ll be hobbling around with your pants down—”

“You’re taking this too seriously,” Sticky sighed. “You’re sucking the fun out of it.” 

"No, I'm _strengthening_ your guys' fighting tactics." Joan waved her hand like he was nothing more than an obnoxious fly. "I have faith in Rick and Cheeks' abilities. I just want to help them come up with a battle plan."

 _Are you making fun of us?_ Sticky thought. He started to open his mouth to shoot out an accusation, but an eager Cheeks beat him to the punch.

"All right, all right! What about this? We lose the pants completely. We rip ’em off, and attack in our birthday suits!”

“Now, hold on a minute!” Rick cried.

Joan blinked. “So what, you’re just gonna fight with your johnsons flopping around?”

“Uh, guys, I don’t think—”

“Hell yeah, we will!” Fire raged in Cheeks’ eyes. “That’ll show ’em!”

“Show ’em _what?_ ” Rick’s pale blue eyes were as wide as saucers.

“It’ll show ’em we’ve got nothing to fear.” Cheeks grinned. “It’s the animal kingdom, baby. You gotta bare it all and go hog wild!”

Joan burst out laughing, but Rick didn't look so sure. “I think I’m gonna, like, mentally leave this conversation now,” he said with a grimace.

“Now, Cheeks, I admire your warrior's spirit," Joan said with a grin. "But I've got a...um... logistical concern. I’m just not sure how effective it’ll be in battle, cause like, won't it hurt?”

“Would _what_ hurt?” He asked.

“I mean, if you’re running around with your dingalings free, won’t they—you know— _hurt?_ ”

“Huh?” He looked at her like she was speaking French.

“I mean… if you’re running naked... won’t your johnsons, like, slap you?”

“You think our dongs are gonna slap us?” Cheeks barked out a huge laugh. “How big do you think they are?”

“I— _what?_ No!”

“That’s okay.” He said, smiling from ear to ear. “I'll take your advice to heart. Next time, before we do the move, we'll just throw our dongs over our shoulders so they don’t slap us in the face, all right?”

“I’m just saying—”

“You’re spending too much time thinking about our dingalings,” Sticky said. It was the perfect comment: Joan's jaw dropped and her eyes went wide. 

“Oh my _God!"_ She slapped her forehead. "You make it sound so terrible!"

“Y’know, it’s an interesting hypothesis. You’re really into science, right?” Sticky smirked. “Now I’m wondering: What _are_ the physics of fighting with an 'unsheathed sword?' Is it a, what would you call it... a ‘biological hazard?’ Oh, I know! Maybe we should ask the teacher. He could probably answer all your burning questions about dicks.”

Joan's face darkened until it nearly matched her hair color. “Don’t you dare!”

Sticky locked eyes with her and slowly started to raise his hand. “Why not?” He blinked innocently. “It’s an honest question about aerodynamics and anatomy—”

“Never mind!” She turned around in her seat so quickly that her twin braids flew around and slapped her in the face, much like the hypothetical dongs that captured her curiosity.

Sticky met Cheeks’ eyes, and the two burst out laughing. Joan shook her head, blushing fiercely, before raising her hand to say she needed to use the restroom. It was most likely a lie; Joan always fled when things got too serious, and she always returned with a shiny, wet face, like she’d sloshed cold water over her cheeks to calm down.

As chance would have it, Sticky had to go, too. He waited a few minutes so he wouldn’t meet her in the hallway before he headed out, smiling at the thought of their silly conversation. Nowadays, the crew was a lot happier than it used to be; Brad’s martial arts lessons were another fun excuse to bring them all together, just like Rick’s weekly board games. The Armstrong style, however, had the added benefit of teaching them cool moves and putting hair on their chest. Thanks to it, Sticky was feeling stronger than ever. Maybe it was just in his head, but he walked on sunshine more often than he ever did before.

It almost made dealing with his dad easier.

When he approached the restrooms and saw the mopping bucket, his heart sank. Sticky wasn’t exactly ashamed of being the janitor’s son, but it was something he’d been teased about, and when he was younger and more vulnerable, it made him feel small. Now, he cared less about what other people thought about him, but just being around his father made his heart pound with anxiety. He was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for his father to drop his fake, saccharine smile and attack. It had never happened in school before, mainly because Sticky made sure to never be alone with him, but he had nightmares about his dad hurting him at school, and all the other kids watching, doing nothing to protect him.

He shook his head quickly, trying to ward off the thoughts. His dad must be talking to himself, because the familiar low, mumbling drone slipped beneath the girl's bathroom door and into Sticky's eardrums. Without thinking, he stepped closer, trying to make out the words.

“Pretty clever for such a young kid,” his dad was saying. It made no sense until Joan spoke. 

“Um, not really, sir.” The faucet creaked with an onslaught of water; she must have been washing her hands. Piss-poor luck to use the restroom while his father cleaned it. Mr. Angoneli hated his job with a burning passion, and of all his endless tasks, cleaning toilets was the one that infuriated him the most. He felt humiliated to clean after “snot-nosed little shits,” and dealing with Joan, who acted as high and mighty as a queen, was like the cherry on top of his literal shit cake.

 _None of my business,_ Sticky thought. He barely even liked Joan, so if his dad bothered her for a little bit, that was no skin off his nose. When he slipped into the boy’s room, their voices faded into fuzzy murmurs. He tried to be fast; the last thing he wanted to do was see dad. As he washed his hands and stepped outside, he could hear them clearly.

“I-I’ll be going, sir.”

“Nonsense, what’s the rush?”

“I—” Her words were cut off by a sharp gasp.

His father’s voice dropped to an indiscernible register, speaking in the gentle tone people used with wild animals.

“ _Please!_ ” Joan’s voice was hoarse. Hysterical. “Please, just stop it!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” dad said in a sugary sweet, smiling voice.

Then a rumbling stampede sound grew louder and louder until Joan burst through the bathroom door, looking like she’d just been swept up in a tornado. Her frizzy red hair flew after her soggy, corpse-like face as she dashed away. She ran like a madwoman past the row of classrooms until she was in the farthest corners of the field, stumbling around the chain-link fence that was wrapped in ivy. She looked around helplessly, like she’d fallen into another world.

Sticky’s heart fell into his stomach. _Shit,_ he thought. _Was that how I looked, the first time?_

He watched as Joan stumbled around before disappearing behind a tree. When Sticky caught up, he found her leaning against the bark and puking. A hand wiped at her mouth, and her eyes were wet. She didn’t spot him, must have thought she was alone, because she collapsed to her knees and pounded her fists against her head, yelling, “You dumb bitch! You’re so stupid!”

Sticky was frozen for a moment—then he lurched forward and snatched her wrists, pulling her hands away to stop her self-harm. She gaped at him, snot running down her cheeks; then she turned away and muttered something to the ground. “No, no, no…”

Slowly, she lowered her head until it rested atop her knees in an awkward position. A dark patch of tears spread over her baggy jeans. Sticky crouched down beside her, his hand still clamped around her wrist. Now that she wasn’t hitting herself, he should have let go, but he was worried that at any second she’d start hitting herself again. That was a frightening sight, and he didn’t want to see it again.

He tried to think of something to say to make her feel better, but words would be ashes. There was nothing that could comfort her. Eventually, her crying stopped, and she sniffled instead, trying to compose herself. Sticky looked away at the chain-link fence, avoiding her face so she wouldn’t be embarrassed.

They sat for so long that Sticky figured their teacher would give them a stern talking-to when they got back. After a minute, Joan croaked a "Thanks."

“Yeah,” he said, looking down. His long, sallow hand looked strange against her chubby white wrist. “Um,” he cleared his throat, “You know, you didn’t do…anything wrong. It’s all his fault, and you shouldn’t—”

“It _is_ my fault,” she said, swallowing hard. 

“No,” Sticky said in a shaking voice. Day after day, it was a string of strange happenings. First Brad, who never cried in front of anyone, broke in front of them. Now Joan, who was always so haughty and prideful, cried like an animal, and it was all because of his dad. 

It was a sobering thought.

No one, not even someone like Joan, who was smart and talkative and friendly and the ideal student, could avoid pain. Sticky always figured that he got hurt because he deserved it; because his mom left him and his dad hated him, he must be wrong on some level. But Joan? She was a kid with two doting parents and an obsession with doing well in school, but she got hurt, humiliated, abused in the same way he had been. It made him sick to know that now they had something in common. Why couldn’t it be something innocuous, like a game they both liked, or a cool show they bonded over? Now, he felt sympathy for her, wanted to comfort her, and it wasn’t because he’d grown to like her as a person; it was because she was suffering in a way he’d suffered, and he didn’t want anyone to blame themselves the way he had.

“It’s really not your fault,” he repeated, stronger this time. “Don’t blame yourself. He’s sick.”

“I know he’s sick,” she said. “Or I should have known, but I forgot, ’cause I was distracted by other things.” She wiped her nose, and a trail of slime smeared against her palm. “I thought it couldn’t happen here. I thought it was safe here.”

Sticky didn’t completely understand what she meant at the beginning, but he knew the false feeling of safety. “There’s no such thing as a safe place,” he said. “There are evil people everywhere.” He paused. Maybe he should have stopped, but he went on: “Some of us can’t get away from them.” 

She sighed and licked her cracked lips. “I know. I can’t, either. Even in this life, Marty follows me.”

He frowned. “Who?”

“Is this divine punishment? Is this because I was such a failure?” She was rambling now, craning her head down, whispering into her knees. Sticky was losing her, so he grabbed the back of her shirt collar and gently guided her head up.

“I think I misheard you, but whatever you’re saying, you’re not to blame. Do you hear me?”

Joan started to say something, but he saw the pity and self-loathing in her eyes. It triggered something within him, so he let go of her wrist and stepped forward so they were face-to-face. Without thinking, he put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a rough shake. “Bad things happen to good people. That’s life. Do you understand?”

“Of course I understand.” A flash of anger lit up her dark, wet eyes. Good. It meant she was returning to her old, petulant, self-righteous self. “ _You’re_ the one who doesn’t get it, Tony.”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped. “Only my dad calls me Tony.”

“Why not? It’s your name. Why should he ruin it?”

For once, Sticky had nothing to retort. Normally he loved shutting her down with snarky comments, but now, no clever comebacks or sneering jokes came to him. He spoke honestly instead. “I chose this name. _H_ _e_ chose the other one.”

“Fine.” Joan wiped her nose again, blinking the tears from her eyes. “God, I’m so angry. I’m sorry, but I’m just so angry I can barely think straight.”

“That’s good. You should be.” Sticky nodded. “Just… don’t be angry at yourself.”

“I’m not,” she said. “I’m angry at God. Why did he have to show me in _that_ way?”

“Show you what?”

But she wasn’t listening. Her eyes went far away again, and she stood up, knees creaking with the effort. “I know what I did was wrong,” she murmured. Joan turned her sopping face to the sky, glaring into the clouds like they were the face of an enemy. “God, I know I wasn’t the best mother. I killed myself because of it. But _why?_ ”

“Joan—” Sticky tried to reach out, but she stepped away, jabbing an accusatory finger at the sky.

“Why would You make me suffer, again and again? I never did anything like what they’ve done to me. I wasn’t good: I acknowledge that! Maybe this is Your way of humbling me, but why must You punish this faithful servant in such a degrading way?”

She was yelling. Now Sticky was worried she’d attract a teacher’s attention, so once again, he placed himself in front of her and shook her shoulders. “Joan. What the hell are you talking about? You look like a lunatic!”

“Aren’t I?” Her eyes flickered down to earth, down to him. “You’ve never liked me, have you? You’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a good judge of character. You may not know why I’m here or who I am, but you know, on some level, that I just don’t belong.” Although her voice was strained from her earlier sobbing, there was no pain in her tone. Instead there was only emptiness, apathy, like she’d lost all her fight after arguing with God. 

For a moment, Sticky felt grateful that his dad stopped taking him to church. Once mom left, faith and joy and the belief in purity and goodness went away with her. What was the point? Now that Sticky saw the consequences, the blind devotion and nonsensical ramblings, the scary shifts in character, he felt glad he stopped praying. Joan looked like an old, bitter woman now. She didn’t look like a kid anymore, and her riddles made him cold.

“Joan… what _are_ you?”

“I should have done it a long time ago,” she muttered.

“Done what?”

“I’ll change things. I swear it, Tony.” Joan seemed to think using his real name would convey her sincerity. Sticky was already convinced by the manic look in her eyes. “I’ll make sure they don’t hurt anyone again.”

“They?”

She smiled. “You’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was a roller coaster. I wrote the ending first, then decided the chapter was a bit too bleak, so then I added the comedic conversation along with a little bit of wish fulfillment... Brad getting a BIG FAT GROUP HUG.
> 
> Come to think of it, in the last few chapters, Brad's gotten a lot of love, both from Joan and his boys. Pretty much everyone's on him like:
> 
> And you know what? That's good shit 💯
> 
> Anyway, enough clowning around on my part. This chapter is leading up to Part 1's climax, which we'll see in the next chapter. I'm pumped, but also nervous, about writing that part. I hope you'll stick with it and let me know what you think, because tensions will finally come to a head.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think in the comments. I'd love to hear your thoughts after following the story so far.


	9. Joan III

God had finally made his intentions clear: It was time to kidnap Lisa.

The weeping rains poured their sorrows across the world, bathing the skies in dark grey gloom. The Armstrong house was a shabby specter against the landscape that seemed to tremble from the fearsome winds.

Joan stared at it as the rain beat down on her face. She blinked the water out of her eyes and rubbed at her misty glasses, eyeing the house and breathing deeply to calm herself. _This is why I was put on Olathe,_ she thought. _Be calm. This is your only purpose for being here. Stop being afraid and do it._

She forced one foot ahead and then the next until she was creeping down the muddy track that led up to this haunted home. The skies were dark with the night, and Brad and Lisa were probably in bed by now. That was for the best: It would be easiest to steal Lisa if she were asleep.

The heavy bag on Joan’s back held an extra rain jacket she’d wrap around Lisa so the little girl wouldn’t get sick. There was an extra pair of shoes so Joan wouldn’t track mud and rain inside the derelict home. She wanted to leave no marks of her presence, but she was prepared for the possibility. That’s why she carried a can of pepper spray in her left hand: If Marty caught her, she wasn’t going down without a fight. 

_I pray that won’t happen,_ she thought, sneaking around the side of the house near the living room window. The mud squelched beneath her heavy, yellow rain boots, and she flattened against the wall, praying Marty wouldn’t see her if he peered out. For a minute she stood still, but when she heard nothing besides the rainfall, she peered through the window and her heart hammered at the sight of Marty, fast asleep on the couch. Light from the TV flashed against his greasy face, but his eyes were screwed shut, and his bulging chest rose with the deep breaths of slumber.

If she wanted to, Joan could sneak through the front door. Marty left it unlocked, convinced no one would think they had anything to rob. But that ran the risk of waking him up, and then it would be game over. Instead, she stepped through the drowning garden, whose plants had long since withered, toeing her way towards the kitchen door. When she peered through the window, she found it empty. As Joan’s rabbit heart pounded with fear, she reached out and twisted the doorknob, which clicked open with a low groan. No one came, so Joan gently stepped inside, her shoes squeaking against the hard floor.

She could hear Marty’s loud snoring and the ticking of the 10 p.m. clock, so she sighed in relief and shut the door, throwing off her rain boots and leaving them by the kitchen. Silently, she slipped off her backpack and peeled off her wet socks, setting them next to the yellow boots. She pulled on the soft slippers she had packed, which rendered her steps as light as church mice.

Hunching down, Joan crawled out of the kitchen and down the hall, peering behind her to see the back of Marty’s head. He was watching some idiotic, late-night show, with brightly dressed comedians and cackling crowds. Joan skipped the creaking stairs and crept up undetected, but when she reached Brad’s room, she stiffened in fear.

The door was wide open, and Brad was crying.

A trickle of sweat ran down her temple, but Joan tip-toed to Lisa’s room. Wet hands wrapped around the doorknob, but Joan couldn’t get it to twist. She paused, checking to see if Brad heard her, but his soft sobs continued. Gulping, Joan wrenched the knob to the side, and finally, the door opened. With one eye on Brad's room, Joan slipped behind Lisa's door, nestling herself against the shadowy corner. She was so scared she could faint at any moment. If Brad found her, he would never let her leave with Lisa. They'd fight and wake Marty, and if he came... Joan's mind went wild with worst-case scenarios. He'd hurt her many times, though he was careful not to leave bruises. His scars were unseen, but she bore them all the same. Perhaps the reason he never hit her was because she tried so hard to appease his pride. If he caught her kidnapping Lisa, it would give him every excuse to reign down the full extent of his wrath upon her. He'd make her pay. 

Trembling, Joan forced herself to listen to the house: All she could hear was rain, Brad’s quiet cries, and the distorted laughter from the TV. With a deep breath, she walked out of the corner and crept towards Lisa, who was fast asleep. Joan put down the pepper spray, pulled out her rain jacket, and wrapped it around the sleeping girl.

God must have truly been on her side, because Lisa stayed asleep as Joan lifted her up. _Thank you, God_ , Joan thought, cradling Lisa against her chest before slipping out the room and past Brad, undetected. His sobs had quieted now, and she heard him sigh.

Marty was still snoring. With both hands holding Lisa still, Joan tiptoed down the stairs, trying desperately not to slip and fall, holding her breath the whole time. When her feet touched the ground, she nearly sighed in relief, but she caught herself. _Don’t make a sound in Marty’s presence_. If he woke up, she would die of fear.

She could barely feel her legs anymore; they felt frozen in terror, but Joan propelled them forwards till she was back in the kitchen where she’d sneaked in. Fear seized her as she realized now how poor her planning was: How could she put her socks and boots back on when both hands were holding Lisa? And where was the pepper spray?

Joan gasped when she remembered: The can was left upstairs, right next to Lisa’s bed. _Shit!_ But she shook the thoughts away and stuck her cold feet in the rain boots anyway. It took a bit of squirming, but they consumed her feet again, albeit this time without socks, since she couldn't slip them back on while holding Lisa. Rainwater from her earlier trek now submerged her freezing toes. The walk home would be agonizing, but she couldn't afford to think about that. This body was worthless compared to the importance of her task. With a deep breath, Joan nudged the slippers and socks behind the trash can, praying they wouldn’t draw attention.

A comedian on TV told a funny joke and the screen burst with the audience’s guffaws. Joan swallowed hard and pulled the door open, hoping the laughter hid the door’s creaking.

The fresh smells of rain and dirt relieved Joan’s frantic mind.

She breathed deeply while plodding forward, squishing the wet grass beneath her feet. The air was crisp and full of freedom. One hand pulled the hood of Lisa's bundle over her face, and Joan hunched over, low to the ground, to make sure the girl didn't wake up.

They were away from the house, now, heading down the path and back the way they came. In her muddy boots and dark, blue raincoat, Joan was a murky splotch upon the landscape. If Brad weren’t sleeping, if he looked out his window, maybe the rain would obscure his vision and make him doubt if what he saw was a person or not. Maybe he’d go back to sleep.

Joan chanced a backward look and saw that the windows were empty; there were no beady, black Armstrong eyes staring after her. She and Lisa were free. God was good, and he would guide her home. Her heart was as light as a feather.

When the house was almost out of sight, Joan straightened up a bit and looked down at Lisa. She admired the soft, chubby cheeks, the peaceful look on her face, and, most of all, how soundly the girl slept.

Then a raindrop fell on her cheek, and Lisa’s big, blue eyes flew open. She looked at Joan, looked at the dark and stormy skies, and cried.

“No, no!” Joan whispered, but the winds were against them. Lisa’s loud, scared cries flew back towards the house, and Joan ran.

Her boots splashed through puddles and struggled through the mud, but Joan rushed forward, breathing heavily under the strain. Rain dampened her vision and slowed her steps. The dead weight of her bag thudded against her back.

Marty was yelling in the distance. Joan’s eyes burned with terrified tears, but she refused to give in. Instead she dropped her backpack and ran forwards, past the white picket fence that had splintered and peeled long ago, past the trees she and Brad used to run through with Lisa. Joan ran as fast as she could, but her legs were tiny and weak, and already her muscles burned with strain.

She could hear Marty behind her, now, and she ran faster, escaping the property, seeing other houses past her. Surely, if she got just a bit closer, the sleeping people would hear Lisa’s screams and save them from Marty.

_Please, God, please, God, please, God—_

Then Marty caught her.

He gripped her hood and jerked it back, choking her. Joan fell into the dirt and tried to escape, but he blocked her path. Like a thoughtless animal, Joan ran back the way she came, towards the house, thinking nothing except _I need to get away, I can’t let him catch me!_

But Marty pushed her, hard, and she fell to the ground, twisting her body to shield Lisa from the impact. Her back stung with pain, but she scrambled up, quickly.

Marty didn’t look like a human anymore. He was a monster, twisted with rage. Joan had never seen anything like it. “You evil slut!” He yelled.

Then he stepped closer, and she tried to run, but he grabbed her braid and jerked her back. “I treated you good," Marty hissed. "I made it nice and gentle for you. And you pay me back by stealing my girl?"

Joan threw her foot back into his crotch, and he grunted in pain. She darted around him, dashing towards the houses. She made it a few feet, but Marty was too fast.

He grabbed Joan by the arm and dragged her towards the house, Lisa wailing and writhing against her chest. "Please stop!" Joan begged, but Marty pulled her hard, and the toddler tumbled from her grasp.

Lisa’s screams joined the wet crack of knuckles against flesh.

Joan never saw where his fist came from, but suddenly her face throbbed in pain. The mud soaked her, clung to Marty’s fists as he brought them down, again and again.

She shrieked. Convulsed. She tried to crawl away from the blows, but she couldn't move an inch. She could barely breathe, barely see anything through the bloody haze and cracked glasses.

The rain pounded down on her, washing the blood down her face until it stained her teeth and mingled with the mud on her skin. Lisa sobbed and cried, untouched by the onslaught but terrified. Her voice was so loud, she must have been right next to Joan. All Joan could think of was escaping with Lisa. She tried to reach a hand out towards the cries, but something huge and hard stomped down and her fingers splintered.

Joan howled, thrashed, and writhed on the ground like a dying animal.

All she was aware of was the pain. There was only her screams and Lisa's horrified howls, the thunder and mud and sticky blood, and a giant man cursing her as he broke her body.

He left nothing unravaged in his assault. He battered everything, from her stomach and head to her legs and arms. Joan thought she would die here, in the dirt and the rain, beaten to death for a fatal failure.

She almost wanted to die. Anything to stop the unbearable agony.

By now her glasses had fallen from her face and her eyes were swollen. Raindrops blurred her vision, and she thought she could see Lisa, stumbling over to her father and tugging at his pants.

Lisa, who had just learned to run, who barely spoke, screamed for Marty to stop. Her high, girlish, innocent voice was far too precious for the pain it held. A mop of wet, black hair clung to the back of her white nightgown, and although her hands were as small as a porcelain doll’s, she beat them against her father’s legs. She had no hope of stopping her beast of a father, but she was too young to realize her own bravery.

“Please, daddy, stop it!” She cried, again and again, her tears mixing with the rain that washed down her face.

Marty snatched his daughter from the mud, turning his back on the girl who bled into the soil. His feet sent shockwaves through her ears, slamming down onto the earth again and again as he returned to his shadowy home whose walls ran with rain.

Joan’s body burned with pain. It was all she could think of; for once in her twelve years on this new, strange earth, her mind was wiped of all thoughts of the future. All she could think of was the twisting hurt electrifying her nerves. All she could see was blood.

The last sound she heard was a door snapping shut. Joan closed her eyes and bled into the soil of the Armstrong house, warming the dying grass as her life seeped into the earth.


	10. Brad V

Brad woke to screaming sirens.

The moon was a gleaming sickle in the sky against a dark backdrop of blue. When Brad peered out of the window, he saw cars tearing towards the house, blaring red lights. Underneath the sleepy sky, cops swarmed the house like an army of ants. Brad couldn't move. He thought he was dreaming.

Then, the door slammed downstairs, and Marty's shout ripped through the walls and froze Brad into place. Lisa rarely cried nowadays, but she must have sensed something was wrong. Her little feet thumped against the floor as she burst into Brad's room. "There are strangers here!" Before he could say anything, she ran over to him and clung to his legs, smearing mud over his pants. 

It felt like a dream as policemen surged through the house, clicking handcuffs over dad’s meaty wrists and dragging him away. Lisa was in Brad's arms as he stepped outside and watched it happen. Now the sky was lighter, and the sun peeked out over the horizon. Morning was a long way off, but golden light shot through the celestial blues and infused warm beams throughout the earth. Underneath the vibrant, waking world, dad was a screaming smear who writhed and swore at those around him. 

A policeman asked a question, but all Brad could focus on was the way dad howled in pain when a policeman forced him into the backseat. Dad’s head bounced off the car's top, dislodging his sunglasses so they sank in the mud below. Without the shadowy glass on his face, dad looked naked. Exposed. Those beady eyes were alien, too tiny for his fleshy face, and they gleamed with anger when they locked onto Brad. Before he could say anything, the car door slammed shut, enveloping him in a curtain of darkness.

A policeman obscured the vision, leaning down to look Brad in the eye. He was saying something, but all Brad could do was pinch himself. Surely it was a dream. A nightmare?

Brad saw the scene from miles above, like he was floating in the sky. The flashing car pulled away, leaving another dark police vehicle in front of the house. Dad’s face was pressed against the tinted windows; his mouth twisted like it did when he yelled, but Brad heard nothing. A policeman placed a gentle hand on Brad’s back, guided him into the house. The door slipped shut.

On that beautiful day, Brad and Lisa went away.

Everything was a blur. He remembered holding Lisa as he sat in the back of a police car, trying not to cry when he asked if he’d done something wrong. The officers’ concerned eyes flickered to the rearview mirror, and they rushed to assure him he was alright. Dad was just being investigated, they said, and nothing was decided yet. Brad and Lisa went to a strange building where adults in lab coats looked them over and asked strange questions. “We’re giving you a physical evaluation,” a smiling man said. “Would you like a lollipop?”

Red cherry candy coated Brad’s tongue when he glanced over at the doctor’s notes. “Signs of physical trauma” was all he read before the man tilted his clipboard away and led him away.

He sat with Lisa in a quiet room with motivational posters, sucking on the lollipop while Lisa gurgled in his lap, her arms tightly wound around his neck. Initially, she was afraid of the doctor—afraid of any man she saw—but Brad had insisted on staying close. At one point, they insisted he leave the room, so he lurked outside with his ear pressed to the hard, wooden door.

He heard snippets, such as “signs of broken bones,” “rampant drug use,” and “possible neglect,” but he couldn’t understand most of what they were saying. Eventually she was returned to his arms, and then a stranger with a badge asked if they had any family nearby.

“Just my grandpa,” Brad said. “But he’s very far away.”

Lisa curled closer to him, hiding her face in his neck. The detective crouched, getting on Brad’s level. “Do you know where?”

Brad shook his head. “Can I go home now?”

He could not, it turned out; there were still officers investigating the home.

“Is my dad in trouble?” The detective gave a long-winded non-answer that only confused Brad, so he asked for a ride to Rick’s house instead. Once he explained that Rick was a close friend with a nice family, he and his sister got to ride in the cop car again. He leaned back in the seat, sighing deeply, looking forward to a familiar face after the swarm of strangers. Lisa followed his lead and relaxed against his chest before curiosity had her peering around the car. She ran a tiny hand over the barrier between the front and backseat, and the cop in the passenger’s seat smiled.

“Hello there,” he said, slipping his finger through the barrier.

"Hello, sir," Lisa said, her squeaky voice mimicking the authoritative tones she overheard earlier. She grabbed his finger and gave it a dignified shake, just like the handshakes she'd seen earlier when she and Brad sat in countless waiting rooms. Seeing her sweet, childish face try to sound professional made the officers laugh, and Brad cracked a smile, too.

Rick’s parents gasped when they opened the door. The policemen said something that made them step aside, and Brad hurried into the house in search of his friend. Rick woke to an intense face staring at him, and he flinched so badly he nearly fell off his bed.

“Holy smokes, dude! What are you doing here?” He saw Lisa and blinked. “And why is _she_ here?”

Brad shrugged. “I have no clue. There are cops downstairs.”

Rick’s blue eyes boggled. “What? Show me!”

Their footsteps thundered down the upstairs hall, and they pushed their heads against the columns at the side of the stairs. In the living room, Rick’s parents sat at one couch across from the officers; all the adults were speaking in low, serious tones.

“What are they saying?” Rick whispered. The boys sat on the stairs, unwilling to interrupt the mysterious conversation.

“Maybe something about my dad,” Brad murmured. “They took him away this morning.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know, but they looked us over and drove him to who-knows-where.”

Rick rubbed his forehead. “Aw, geez, man. I wonder what happened…”

Eventually, the cops left, but not before ruffling his hair and assuring him they’d return. Brad wasn’t sure if he wanted that, but he was soon distracted by breakfast, courtesy of Rick’s two, startled parents. They kept giving him nervous looks, patting him on the shoulder and assuring him he would be okay. It wasn’t convincing, but as always, Brad appreciated their kindness. More than that, he was grateful for the breakfast of bacon, ham and toast, which they ate in near-silence below a large, golden cross on the wall.

“This is great,” he said after a few moments. “I’ve never had this at home.”

Rick’s parents looked at each other nervously. “That’s wonderful, dear,” Mrs. Weeks said, leaning over to pat his hand. She eyed the squirming girl on his lap.

“Yeah, you’re always welcome here, bucko,” Mr. Weeks added.

Lisa squirmed in his lap, reaching for the orange juice, but Brad pushed it out of her grasp and tried to give her some eggs instead. She slapped his hand away, and the fork clattered to the floor. “I’m sorry,” Brad said, stepping back to pick it up, but Mrs. Weeks walked over.

“That’s okay, sweetie,” she said. “Why don’t I hold Lisa for a while?”

“Um, I’m not sure about that—”

But Lisa was lifted into the air and held against the soft white cotton of Mrs. Weeks’ shirt. Lisa pushed against the woman’s chest for a better view of the new person holding her. Babbling something Brad couldn’t make out, Lisa eyed the woman’s sparkly necklace, her long, black hair, and the pale blue eyes Rick had inherited. Then Lisa said something Brad _could_ understand: “Are you my mom?”

Mrs. Weeks almost cried. “Oh, my!” She hugged the little girl close to her chest, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. “What a sweetheart!”

Mr. Weeks choked on his milk and pounded his fist into his chest, and Rick laughed. Brad chuckled, meeting eyes with his friend, and for a moment, he wondered if this could be his future. Maybe every morning would be like this; he foresaw endless breakfasts with drinks, meats, and people who smiled in his direction. Brad liked the idea.

Unfortunately, it was not to be.

The police made good on their promise to return. Brad was taken back and asked all manner of strange questions, some of which he couldn’t understand. Then he’d be taken to different rooms where people would ask him the same questions reworded. People poked and prodded and took careful note of his bruises.

He was driven away and put to bed in a room with several other children, who traded scary rumors about foster parents and horrible things to come. The first night he could barely sleep, tormented by thoughts of Lisa going away to a new family, forever torn from his life. There was a large playground with a sandbox, and he watched as Lisa ran around and built misshapen castles.

“Where’s daddy?” She’d ask, day after day. Brad always said he didn’t know, but she never stopped asking until a man came to pick them up.

They were playing in the sandbox when one of the adults called for them, saying they would be leaving today and to pack their things. Brad’s heart pounded the entire time he got ready. Was dad here? Did the police let him go? Part of him wanted to go home, back to his bed, but another part was terrified of seeing that horrible, broken house, returning to a life of walking on eggshells and dodging punches.

He held Lisa’s hand tightly as they walked to the meeting room. Lisa jerked her hand out of his and ran forward. “Daddy, is that you?”

“ _Grandpa?_ ” Brad was dumbfounded; here was a man he'd dreamed about for years, who had given him hope and love, and who he never thought he would see again. Dad swore up and down, "That man is as good as dead. You ain't seeing him ever again," but he was here, in flesh and blood, warm to the touch and holding him tight.

“Hey there, little man,” Grandpa whispered. “I missed you.”

Brad wept.

They were on the ground now, knees pressed against the cold linoleum floor, but it didn’t matter. All Brad knew was that this was real, and it was wonderful. Lisa hugged them too, wiggling between them and wiping their faces, far too young to understand why they were weeping.

Grandpa took them home to his small, yellow home, which had bright green grass and a beautiful garden. Vivid vines crawled up the house, and a row of sunflowers towered over the white picket fences.

In the backyard, Grandpa had rigged up a training area, complete with push-up bars and a punching bag. Just as Brad had imagined, he was proud to hear his grandson had been teaching the Armstrong style.

“That’s my boy!” He said, ruffling Brad’s hair. “I always knew you had a knack for it. Even when you were five, you kicked like lightning. If only your father hadn’t turned his back on tradition…”

Grandpa paused, then. Although he and Marty were estranged—and that was putting it lightly—he was ashamed to have a son who was sitting in jail on multiple counts of child and drug abuse. He never said anything about his feelings in front of Brad, but he shared them with his visiting friends in late-night whispers. “I can’t believe it. _Methamphetamine,_ they said! Found it in the kitchen sink, barely even hidden behind the pipes. And they found crack cocaine in little Lisa’s room, right under the crib. Jesus Christ.”

“The kids are safe now. They’re with you,” a friend said, his voice soft and slow.

Brad, who had been hiding in the hall, went back to his room and thought about it in bed. He had no idea dad had been doing drugs—he thought dad just drank beer—but that explained why dad had been taken away, why they hadn’t seen him. Sure, Grandpa had asked, cautiously, if Brad wanted to meet him again, but he swore up and down he did not.

As terrible as it was, what had happened was for the best. Sometimes Brad was upset that his friends were so far away, and he wished he could go back to Rick’s house and tell him everything that happened, but he was adjusting to life in a new town, and he was starting to make friends.

Still, he wrote letters to Rick and asked him to keep their friends up-to-date on how they were doing.

 _Dear Rick,_ his most recent letter read.

_Things have been okay. Life here is mostly uneventful, except for my birthday party today._

_Grandpa got me a lot of cool presents. My friends and I played games and hit a pinata. Lisa hit it so hard she broke it. There was lots of great candy and food. You should have seen it._

Brad paused and wondered if he should have ended it there, but Rick was always so descriptive in his letters that Brad figured he should add some detail.

_She was proud of herself. Tried to steal everything from me, but Grandpa stopped her. Lisa pouted, but she was OK when the cake came out. Chocolate._

Brad took a deep breath. His handwriting was so large and messy he was nearing the bottom of the page. _We’re both doing good. Lisa still talks about dad sometimes, but she’s so happy here I think she’s starting to forget. Which is better. She’s doing so well I’m almost jealous. She adjusted to living here easier than I did, but whatever._

He shouldn’t leave the letter on that note. Rick was always pushing him to be more positive, whether it was through his enthusiastic use of exclamation marks or his loud, excited state when they talked on the phone.

_Everything’s going well over here. Hope you and everyone else are okay. I miss you guys._

_Best,_

_Brad_


	11. ?

"Well. Things didn't quite go according to plan, did they?"

"...What...what are you doing here?"

"Easy there, sweetheart. Don't strain yourself."

"You're not supposed to be here."

"Nobody stopped me. I have every right to come and visit my favorite student. Don't tell me you've lost interest in our little arrangement?"

"No..."

"Good, good. That would have been a disappointment... and you know how I handle disappointments."

"Yes, but... why are you here? I can't move. I can't be useful to you this way."

"Don't be stupid. I know you're worthless in your current state, and you'll likely be worthless for a long time... but your brain will be an asset to my research."

"Thank you... I'll be sure to work hard and learn as much as I can to serve you, and—"

“I don’t trust you to play any part in my work. I simply mean to study you."

"But... I know a lot about Olathe. I-I've spent my whole life studying, preparing for what’s to come. I—"

"You’re an ignorant hick who has yet to prove a thing. You can't expect me to take your claims at face value."

"What? You already did! You gave me—"

“Shut up. Do you want the nurses to hear you?”

“No, but…you said you believed me. Why would you give me those… ‘gifts’ if you didn’t trust me?”

“Simple. It was a back-up plan, just in case you went back on your word.”

“What?!”

“I have recorded audio of you asking me for those so-called ‘gifts’ to plant in someone else’s house. According to the news, it worked. Wouldn’t it be a shame if this audio were leaked? You’d be outed as responsible for sending an innocent man to prison, breaking apart a happy family.”

“You would never do that! You’re the one who gave me the ‘gifts.’ If you ratted me out, I’d rat you out as well. We’d both go down together!”

“You must have a low opinion of me. I’ve already prepared for your untrustworthiness. Did you know that one of your closest associates is the son of a dealer? If you’re going to threaten me, you should first be more mindful of who you spend your time with…”

“Are you talking about…Sticky? I—there’s no way you could pin that on him or his dad. I’ve never even met Mr. Angoneli. How could you possibly frame him as the source of those… ‘gifts’?”

“You shouldn’t lie to me, darling.”

“What…?”

“I have eyes on you. I know you’ve met him. You got quite… _close_ , didn’t you?”

“…Shut up. Shut up! You’re lying!”

“You’d better lower your voice if you don’t want the doctor to come.”

“Leave me alone! Get out of here!”

“Keep acting like this, and I’ll have evidence of your mental instability. When the doctor comes, he’ll see you acting hysterical. Even if he takes your side, I already recorded your manic ramblings about past lives and conspiracies and the apocalypse. Keep crying, and I’ll have you thrown into a mental institution. Then you won’t be of use to _anyone_ , least of all me.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you… you’re just a tool who will play a minuscule role in this world’s future, an ant with delusions of grandeur. But you’ve stopped crying, so at least you’re not a _complete_ fool. I’m glad. I was worried for a moment that my time might have been wasted…”

“I already told you: I keep my word. And I _will_ change the future. I’ll prove you wrong.”

“If you hope to ever work for me, instead of being a mindless lab rat, you’d better work on your manners. I don’t accept disrespect from my inferiors.”

“…I’m sorry. I promise…I’ll serve you well.”

“We’ll see about that. Oh, and remember...”

“ _Ow!_ ”

“Keep your mouth shut.”

“I will…just…stop it! You're hurting me!”

“Smile. The doctor will arrive soon, and we don't want him suspecting anything, do we?"

“N-no...”

“No, _what?_ "

"No, sir."

"Good…you follow instructions well. Keep it up, and you may yet prove your worth.”

“Yes…sir.”

“That’s the spirit.”

* * *

**END OF PART ONE**

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends the first arc of "LISA: The Faithful"! It's been a ride so far. 
> 
> Next chapter takes us eight years into the future and straight into the mind of a Lisa who grew up in a completely different environment than she did in canon. I'm so excited to tell her story over the course of part two; this is where the butterfly effect really kicks in, and I'm looking forward to seeing how readers react to it.
> 
> By the way, thanks for sticking with this story for so long! I would love to hear your thoughts after reading part one, so please leave a comment — I'd be super grateful! :)


	12. Lisa I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Part II of "LISA: The Faithful."
> 
> I wanted to give a quick shout-out to those of you who commented on my last chapter. I can't tell you how happy it made me to hear your thoughts. Seeing that tangible proof that people are reading my story... it gave me a great feeling. Thanks so much for taking the time to comment! ＼(^▽^＠)ノ
> 
> That being said, please be sure to look over the tags for triggers, just in case you haven't before. This chapter has some heavy themes, so I want to be sure you go in with both eyes open. 
> 
> Without further ado, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

When Lisa first met her dad, she was so happy she could die.

He sat on the bus bench, his small, dark eyes anxiously scanning the windows. Although he looked slightly different from Grandpa’s photos, Lisa recognized him immediately. Overwhelmed with excitement, she bounced in her seat and pressed her face against the window. When Dad found her, he lit up like a firework.

Dad was everything she hoped for. He wore a neat, gray suit, his hair freshly combed and his cheeks red with joy. He looked cool and professional, just like the dads who came to pick up their kids after school. No longer would she be the odd one out, the weird girl with the dead mom and imprisoned dad. Now, she would have a parent in her life, and she grinned at the thought.

When the bus finally lurched to a stop, Lisa flew to the front, pushing away the protesting passengers. Dad clamored to the curb, meeting her eyes through the bus door. Only glass stood between them now.

For the first time in her life, someone was excited to see her. Lisa’s heart pounded in joy. _Will he like me? Will he hate me? I hope he’s nice!_

The minute the door swung open, Lisa leaped from the top of the stairs, straight into Dad’s arms. “I’m so happy to meet you!”

He laughed, and it was a wonderful sound because it was so rare—Grandpa and Brad never laughed—and he said nice things and told her how much she looked like her mother, how happy he was to see her. “Now _that’s_ a first impression!” He said, holding her tightly. They didn’t care a whit for the people rushing around them.

The eight years they had been apart faded when they spoke. They chattered all the way home like old friends, and Lisa was so happy she barely noticed the way his old, chipped car constantly groaned and slowed. She couldn’t care less about how dilapidated and broken-down the Armstrong house looked. All she could think about was that she was finally a normal girl: She had a dad who loved her, and they would spend all summer together.

Everything was right in the world.

* * *

Two years later, Lisa is close to committing murder.

She used to love compliments; now, she wants to bite the hands off anyone who calls her pretty. The word makes her stomach ripple in revulsion.

Every time He calls her pretty, she wants to scream, but she can’t. Screaming gets you beaten. It gets you bruised, sore, worthless, “whore.”

(She still doesn’t know what “whore” means, but just the sound of it makes her freeze, rabid fear ripping at her brain matter, till there’s just her bare little lizard brain, crawling away to hang from the ceiling, watching what happens to her discarded body while she lingers in the angel’s realm.

She wishes she could stay there, away from her skin, but every time He’s done, that lizard slips back into her skull and rearranges her mind so she can move again, slow and aching everywhere.)

She hates Him, but she loves Him, too. He’s everything she wanted, but He’s too much.

Is this what other dads do? Is this love?

He says it’s normal, but it feels wrong. _Maybe it’s because I didn’t grow up with him,_ she thinks. _Maybe I’m just abnormal._

But is it normal to dream about snakes slithering inside of her, devouring her from the inside out? Is it normal to look at your father with just as much hate as love, to dread summer every year?

Maybe Grandpa is right, and she’s a Bad Girl. She feels dirty and disgusting, inside and out.

Brad’s far away, but she sits on his old bed sometimes and looks out his window, wishing he would save her. Grandpa will never come—he’d rather die than see his son again—and he hates her for coming here in the first place.

But Brad? _Brad_ should have noticed when she came home the first time. She wouldn’t talk for days. At first, he was worried, but Grandpa’s scoff sold him a lie. “She’s just sulking ’cause she wanted to stay.”

It was _so wrong_ that a snake coiled around her throat and silenced her. She wanted to say he was wrong, but she couldn’t speak a word. No matter how much she struggled, her lips couldn’t part. She looked at her brother desperately, imploring him to take her side, but Brad _believed_ him. He looked at her, betrayed—didn’t even wait for the snake to go away.

It never did. Whenever she tries to speak about what had happened, the snake kills her voice. It grows stronger, too, as time passes.

The worst part is _she asked for this._

It’s all her fault.

* * *

“Grandpa, is dad out of prison now?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“…A few weeks.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?!”

“You didn’t need to know.”

“Didn’t need to know? He’s my _dad!_ ”

“You’re just a kid. You’re not old enough to understand—”

“I understand that everyone else knows their dad, and I’ve never even met mine!”

“You met him before when you were a baby. Your brother said he sometimes hit you.”

“That’s not fair! If he’s out of prison, then he learned his lesson, right? He must have changed. I know it!”

“Nobody changes that much, Lisa.”

“If you loved me, you would let me meet him.”

“Stop with the manipulation! You’re not meeting him, and that’s final.”

“I hate you.”

“…What?”

“I hate you. I hate you! I HATE YOU!”

* * *

In the end, Lisa got her way—but she was too weak to deal with the consequences.

After nightfall, she creeps through the house, quiet as a mouse, slips a knife into her hand, stands over the sleeping man…

… and does nothing.

She can’t bring herself to do it. The knife hovers over Dad’s sleeping heart; this is her one shot at salvation, but the same snake that bites her tongue now weighs her hands down, till the blade clatters on the floor and she crumples under the weight of her own worthlessness.

_I’m a good-for-nothing whore._

Lisa takes a shuddering breath and goes upstairs. She packs her things to go home early. It’s only June; She’s been here a week—thought, _maybe things will be different this time_ —but now she slithers past the walls and through the front door. Crisp air means she’s free.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t get on without a ticket,” the bus driver says. “You have to go, little girl.”

Begging does nothing; people only stare. Gas from the bus clouds her nostrils as her hope drives away, but Lisa won’t give up. She slips stolen coins into a payphone, the rings as loud as her heartbeat.

“What?” Grandpa’s familiar voice cracks through the phone, ragged from a lifetime of whiskey and cigarettes.

“I want to go home.”

“Lisa? Is that you?” He sighs, and he’s probably rubbing his temples as he always does when she asks too much of him. “What the hell happened?”

The snake holds her tongue hostage, but Lisa takes a deep breath and steels herself. She needs to tell him, has to go home. “Dad hurt me,” she says, and she takes another gulp of air in and is about to speak again when grandpa interrupts her.

“What the hell did you do, Lisa?”

She freezes. The anger in his voice is like poison shooting into her ear. For a moment, she’s shocked that he would assume she’s in the wrong, that she could possibly be blamed for what happened. Then surprise erupts into anger, and she screams into the other line: “I didn’t do anything!”

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that! You call me, asking for a ride home in the middle of the night, and you have the fucking audacity to _scream_?”

“Grandpa, he hurt me!” Her throat is raw, and tears blur her vision. “He hit me and he—”

“He’s your father; he can do what he wants.”

“But _you_ never hit me! You never—”

“You know what, maybe this is for the best. Maybe I should have disciplined you more when you were younger.”

“I can’t _fucking_ believe you would say that!” This is the first time she’s ever sworn at him, but it flies out of her like toxic spittle. Lisa’s so overwhelmed with rage, shock, horror and disgust she can’t help herself. This must be how a volcano feels before it erupts.

Now Grandpa’s yelling, too. “Don’t you use that language with me!”

“But—you _just_ said that word!”

“That doesn’t matter!” He snaps. “You need to learn some respect, and if Marty’s not taking any of your bullshit, then maybe that’s a good thing!”

“Don’t you care? _He’s hurting me!_ Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

“Stop crying. You can’t manipulate your way out of this.”

“Grandpa, I want to go home. Please, come and get me!”

“Do you know how far away I am? Do you know how long it would take me to get there? You wanted this!”

“I don’t want it anymore.”

“Do you know how hard it was to arrange? How _angry_ your father was when I first called him?” He didn’t wait for a response. “The last time I saw your father, he tried to kill me. He already threatened to sue me for custody. This is the only reason we haven’t gone to the courts.”

“But—”

“You’re lucky he agreed to this. If you back out now, do you know what could happen?”

“Grandpa, _please_.”

“No. I’ll see you in August, but until then, you need to sort out whatever problems you’re having.”

“I can’t.”

He lets out a long sigh, the way he always does after he’s lost his temper and made her cry. She half-expects him to tell her she’s at fault, but instead he says, “Fine. Be like that. You know, maybe this is good for you. You can’t just leave at the first sign of trouble. You have to take responsibility for your actions.”

The phone slams into the side of the booth.

“…Lisa?”

* * *

Dad’s doing It again.

Alcohol breath steamrolls her skin, the sickening smell pricking her pores. No matter how “gentle” he is, it always hurts like a hot iron sizzling her innards.

“Stop crying,” Dad grunts. “I know you like it.”

Afterward, she kneels in the thick earth of the woods and heaves up her breakfast. Warped sausage and distorted eggs spurt from her cracked lips, and she gags till there’s nothing more to give.

Screaming doesn’t change anything, but she feels better flying through the trees, shrieking bloody murder so loudly birds fly from their nests. _Fly away, little birds._ She hates them, envies them, wishes she had rocks.

Dirt cloaks her filthy clothes when she writhes and groans on the ground. Maybe it will hide the smell of other stains, hide her shame from the glaring red eye in the sky.

A shadow shields her from the hateful sun.

“A-are you okay?”

A boy stands over her. “Do I fucking _look_ okay?”

He gasps. “You c-can’t say that! That’s a b-bad word.”

“If I’m getting fucked,” she rasps, “I can say the word.”

The boy flinches. _Fuck your pitying eyes,_ she wants to say, but the delicate flower might faint.

“…Wh-what does that word mean, anyway?”

“Ask your parents.”

There’s silence; he must have left. Then: “I don’t have any parents.”

“Me neither.” Lisa sits up, stares into those dumb, frightened eyes.

“B-b-but…Don’t you have a d-dad…?” He jumps at her glare, wringing his hands. “I-I just overheard you…saying s-something about your d—”

“My dad isn’t really my dad.”

“How so?”

“He’s evil.”

“Oh.” Pause. “I’m sure he’s n-not _so_ bad. I mean—”

Rage devours the world. For a moment, Lisa can only see red. The boy dodges her first fist, but the second knocks him in the eye, and he yelps. It feels _good,_ and she thirsts for the stinging of her hand against flesh, but he flees, quick as a rabbit.

 _Coward_. Lisa spits on the ground, but she hopes to see him again. Her hands twitch.

* * *

When summer shriveled up like dying autumn leaves, Lisa left to return home.

Her bag was painfully heavy, but when Dad offered to carry it back to the station, she shook her head so hard, her brain rattled in her skull.

“Suit yourself, beautiful.” Dad ruffled her hair, caressed it with lingering hands. His eyes fell upon her golden pendant on its black string, a treasure from her mother. “I swear, you look more like her every day. Did I ever tell you we met back in high school? That’s coming up for you soon, isn’t it?”

“I can’t miss my bus.” 

“Okay, but before you leave, give daddy a kiss.”

Lisa puked onto the white flowers once the front door closed, and bile burned in the back of her throat all the way to the bus station.

So mom and dad met in high school. That was two years away. Lisa hoped she didn’t meet her future husband there. She didn’t want to get pregnant and drop out and die from a bottle of pills.

She shivered at the thought, which was probably why a man tried to kidnap her.

Once she neared the bus station, a hand snatched at her arm. The man with the firm grasp smiled sweetly to dispel suspicion from nearby passengers, but Lisa recognized trouble in his hungry gaze. “Hey there, sweetie!” He talked to her like a five-year-old. “It’s time to go home. Your mom wanted me to come pick you up.”

Lisa gaped at him. Her _mom?_ Really? Her long-dead mom rose six feet from the grave to give this pervert a message? Furious, she yelled so loudly every head snapped towards them: “Leave me alone, you evil bastard!”

She tore away and jumped onto the bus.

“Are you okay?” The driver asked.

“No.” Lisa pointed. “That man tried to kidnap me.”

“ _What?!_ ” He jumped up, but the pervert scuttled away like an insect, too fast to catch. “Jesus Christ. Little girl, are you sure you’re okay?”

Lisa shrugged, unsure of what to say. Rage simmered in her stomach, and she was afraid of throwing up again. She must have looked sick, because the man gave her a water bottle and introduced himself as Hardy Hernandez. “If you ever need anything, let me know.”

“Thank you.”

Passengers’ eyes cut her as she struggled down the thin aisle. They were judging her for screaming, but she kept her head down. Dark, black bangs shielded her from the useless bastards until she found her spot. ( _None of them would have done a thing if I were kidnapped. None of them cares about me. To them, I’m just a sideshow freak to stare at_.)

She liked sitting in the very back; it was the best seat for scenery. Olathe’s rolling hills and sparkling waterfalls eased her mind during the rides home. The first couple of days back were always hard. Not only did she have to get ready for school, but she had to tiptoe around Brad and Grandpa’s anger. They were still mad at her for begging to go see her father, for failing to believe their stories about him.

Now she was paying for it.

“How was it?” Grandpa had asked after the first summer she went away.

The snake stilled her tongue, so she shrugged. “Why didn’t you come pick me up? I had to ride on the bus, all by myself, for hours.”

“And see _him_ again?” Grandpa spat. “Never. If you want to see your father, you’ll do it alone. I’ll never lay eyes on that man again.”

Later that day, she knocked Brad’s soda over at dinnertime. “I’m sorry!”

“Don’t be sorry,” Grandpa said. “Go clean the mess.”

“But shouldn’t Brad help me, too? It was his soda!”

“No. You’re the one who knocked it over. It was your fault.”

Lisa froze. Dad had said that, too.

_“It was your fault. You’re so beautiful, I just couldn’t help myself.”_

“LISA!” She jumped. “Stop standing there like an idiot and clean up your damn mess!”

“But—”

“No. Take responsibility for what you’ve done!”

The words stuck with her. Grandpa was a calm man, but she always seemed to make him mad. He never hit her — only yelled when she did bad things — but his disappointment was soul-crushing.

How could she ever tell him about summer? She was the one who hounded him to let her go, who screamed in his face till he yielded. She was the one who went back the next summer, hoping Dad would change, that It had been a fluke. She was nothing more than a worthless, stupid slut, and Grandpa would be so mad at her if he knew about her failure.

Lisa would rather die than hear him say, “I told you so. It was all your fault.”

And now strangers wanted her. _Why does this happen to me?_ Lisa fought the tears, pressing her face against the glass as the blurry scenery buzzed by. _What’s wrong with me?_ She rubbed her fist against her eyes. _Can men just look at me and know what I am?_

With her head in her hands, Lisa was blind to the world. She hadn’t noticed the bright boy beside her until he tapped her shoulder. “Hi!” Lisa jumped, bonking her head against the glass.

“Oh, geez, I’m sorry about that!” He looked like a human puppy, with a blonde bowl cut and a bright, red shirt with golden sunflowers. Hints of blue eyes peeked out beneath his heavy bangs, and full, red lips twisted into an eager smile. “Hey, I just wanted to tell you, what you did back there was kinda cool.”

Lisa looked down, hoping he didn’t notice the wetness in her eyes. “Y’know,” he went on, “when you yelled at that creep and called him the b-word? That freaked my parents out, but I really liked it. It was badass, and—"

“Just say ‘bastard.’”

He blinked. “Oh, uh, I’m not allowed to say the b-word—”

“But you can say ‘badass?’”

“Hey, those words are totally different. ‘Ass’ can also mean donkey, so with ‘badass,’ you can at least _try_ to argue your innocence. Not so with—” Here he leaned over the aisle, peering for his parents. When he saw no suspicious heads turned their way, he leaned in and whispered, “‘ _Bastard.’”_

Lisa couldn't help but snicker. The boy’s dark blue eyes sparkled, and he went on: “Now, y’see, I could _maybe_ try to argue that I’m talking about illegitimate children when I say—” He whipped his head around to check for eavesdroppers, but this time he did it so dramatically his golden hair whipped around like a dog shaking off water. “‘ _Bastard.’_ But I don’t think I could make a good argument, y’know?”

Now Lisa laughed out loud. “Stop that!” She gave him a light push. “No one’s listening to us!”

He grinned. “You have no idea. I swear, my parents have the best ears ever. One time, I was pissed that my mom had yelled at me, so I was muttering to myself in my room upstairs, and I called her a bitch, and even though she was outside, she stormed back in and—”

“You’re lying. There’s no way she heard you from that far away!”

“I swear on her life!” The boy made the sign of the cross and stuck his hand up like he was swearing on the Bible. “She stomped up the stairs and into my room, and she yelled—” Now he spoke in a high, witchy voice, “‘Bernard Buttfart, did you just call me a _bitch_?’ And I had to go, ‘No, ma, I swear, I said ditch!’ And she crosses her arms and goes, ‘Why did you say ditch?’ And I go, ‘Wait, no, um, I mean, I said switch!’ And she says, ‘Oh, so you said 'switch,' huh?’ And I finally just say, ‘Listen ma, I’ll say whatever I need to say to avoid an ass whooping!’”

Lisa laughed again. “ _Did_ she wind up ‘whooping your ass?’”

“Nope! I made her laugh, which is good, ’cause it’s kinda hard to hit someone when you’re too busy laughing.” He leaned back in his seat and smiled at her. “I’m glad I could’ve made you laugh. You looked a little upset earlier. At first, I was afraid you might have yelled at me.”

“I only yell at people who make me angry. You’re nice, so you don’t have to worry.” Lisa leaned in to whisper, and he shivered when she spoke: “But if you weren’t so nice, I’m afraid I’d have to… _whoop your ass._ ”

Bernard laughed like a dolphin, and the sound was so funny Lisa joined in. They made such a ruckus that the people in the next aisle _shhh_ ed them. They giggled and apologized, but a few minutes later, they were off on some other story and laughing so hard their faces were red. Lisa had never met anyone like him. By the time the bus stopped, her cheeks ached from smiling.

“Well, this is my stop. Are you coming off, too?” He looked at her hopefully.

“No.” Disappointment washed over her. She’d rather leave with her sweet new friend than return to her dark, somber home. “I’m a few cities away, but I’ll get there in about an hour.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but his parents called him away. “I gotta go now, but it was cool to meet you. I hope we can see each other again.”

“I hope so, too.” The warmth in her voice surprised her, and she shared a smile with Bernard that lasted a moment too long. A hot sensation climbed up Lisa’s face as she watched him leave.

When the bus rumbled back to life, Lisa was unnerved by its silence. She’d been speaking with her new friend for hours, but time had flown by in his presence. Outside, a blanket of darkness repainted the world; the bright green fields she admired earlier offered only a bleak palette that made her sigh and shut her eyes. The window glass was cool against her cheek.

“Miss? Time to wake up.”

Lisa jerked awake to find Hardy Hernandez standing by her seat. “This is your stop, right?” He smiled apologetically.

“Yeah,” she murmured, rubbing her eyes. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right. Here, let me help you.” He lifted her bags in the air, and Lisa stepped after him. By now, the rows were nearly emptied of people. Soon, the bus would reach the end of the line. “So, you make this ride every year?”

Lisa blinked. “Uh-huh. How do you know?”

He chuckled. “I heard you and your friend talking. You were loud.”

“Sorry.” Her cheeks burned.

“Don’t be. It’s good to hear kids laughing. Reminds me of my boys, back at home. They’re around your age, you know?” Lisa said nothing, so he went on: “I’m surprised your parents let you go alone! You must be pretty responsible.”

 _Grandpa would disagree with you,_ she thought bitterly. “Thank you,” she said instead.

“Still, I’m glad you had someone to talk with. How quickly you made friends! You must be the most popular girl in school, huh?”

“…Not really.” It was the understatement of the century. Still, as the friendly driver waved goodbye and she walked through the darkened neighborhood, she felt strangely optimistic. She’d made two friends in one day. Maybe this was a good omen for the coming year, and she would finally enjoy school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little behind-the-scenes story. Part II of "LISA: The Faithful" was inspired by this sentence in the fandom wiki page: [ "Not much is known about [Lisa's] personality other than her unstable state of mind."](https://lisa-rpg.fandom.com/wiki/Lisa_Armstrong)
> 
> That gave me pause. Lisa is the titular character. She's the catalyst for everything that happened in this story... but at the end of the day, that's all she really is: a plot device to propel events forwards. When I realized that, I felt a wave of sadness and sympathy for this poor little girl who's defined by the worst parts of her life.
> 
> I wanted to give justice to Lisa's character by fleshing her into a three-dimensional person with her own hopes and dreams. A picture emerged in my mind of a fiercely determined and clever little girl with a strong creative streak and a dark sense of humor. 
> 
> That being said, the more I thought about Lisa's portrayal in the games, the more I realized that her entire character is defined by her sexual abuse at the hands of her father. As horrifying as it is, it's a theme that's essential to her character, and it didn't feel right to leave it out. 
> 
> Growing up with Grandpa Edwin was a much better fate than growing up under the iron fist of Marty Armstrong... but Ed isn't perfect. I hope I sufficiently alluded to that earlier in the story, when he wrote off Mama Armstrong's death as "a woman going crazy," but he's a bit of a hardass, and the fact that Lisa's named after the wife he divorced puts a strain on their relationship.
> 
> In this universe, Lisa grew up wishing she had a normal family, with parents instead of a tough grandpa and emotionally unavailable brother. She idealized her dad and dreamed of a perfect relationship once he got out of prison for good behavior. As we can see, that did not end well, and it leads her down a tangled path, as we'll see in the next few chapters.
> 
> As always, thanks so much for reading my story, and please let me know what you think in the comments! :)


	13. Lisa II

“You little thief.”

Pain rang in Lisa’s ears as her head slammed against lockers.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing, flirting with my boyfriend?”

“I was just _talking—”_

“Shut up, bitch!”

A claw smacked her mouth shut, smearing blood and lipstick over her face. Lisa narrowed her eyes at the three girls who cornered her. They were in a secluded part of the school; no one would save her — but no one would see if she defended herself, either.

 _“Next time I see you,” the principal said, “you’re getting suspended._ ”

She took in a shuddering breath and lowered her stance. Their empty heads thought she was being submissive, making herself look smaller, and they sneered. “You’re going to listen to me,” one of the girls said, stepping forward so their noses touched.

_“Try to talk your way out of fights first,” Grandpa said. “Violence shouldn’t be your first response.”_

“If I ever see your ugly ass try to take what’s mine again, I’ll beat you up.” Lisa stared at her, weighing her options. Then a hand wrapped around her mother’s pendant. “In fact, why don’t I take something of yours?”

Lisa pounced. She screamed like an animal as she shoved the girl away and smacked her to the ground. Another girl came forward, but a low kick sent her tumbling. When the last one tried to flee, Lisa snatched her long ponytail and ripped out a fistful of hair. She beat them until her knuckles ached and kicked them until their howls attracted teachers.

It felt _good_. So good Lisa ran through the halls with a smile on her face, not caring about her blood-stained teeth. She fled from the shouts and threats, darting down the streets until she was home safe in her bed, clutching her pillow and rolling around the blankets, high on elation and laughing like crazy.

Grandpa raged when the school called him; he locked her bedroom door and said she’d spend the suspended week inside, but Lisa couldn’t care. She had kept her mother’s necklace and defended herself with the Armstrong style. She only wished she’d hurt the girls even more.

* * *

Anger management failed.

“I give up,” the psychiatrist said, and Lisa was glad to see him go. How could she miss a man who had taken one glance at her wrists and claimed she did it for _attention?_ He was an arrogant bastard who talked down to her and pressured her into group therapy. As if she was going to tell strangers why she fought and cut and purged into toilets. It was none of their business. It calmed her down and made her happy. What was wrong with that? Why did they need to know?

“I don’t know what to do with you.” Grandpa sat at the edge of her bed, his dark face drawn with stress. The heavy lines around his eyes furrowed as he looked at her. If Lisa were a better person, she would feel guilty for making him upset, but Lisa was a bad girl and a selfish bitch who couldn’t bring herself to care. Even Brad could barely stand her anymore. She ruined everything she touched.

“Lisa…” Grandpa rubbed his temples, looking around her room as if her face pained him. Butterfly stickers crawled up the side of her walls, orange and black wings spread in flight. Art supplies littered her desk, its wood stained with old paint splotches and colorful smudges from pens and markers. Atop her small, white dresser, a mismatched jumble of trinkets and jewelry tangled together in impenetrable knots.

Previously, the room’s walls were stark white. Now, they were painted in a pale, pastel shade of pink—even though Lisa’s favorite color was green. It had been grandpa’s idea, which he got from some news article about pink rooms calming down prisoners. “So, I seem like a violent criminal to you?” Lisa joked, but Grandpa’s look was sobering.

Brad had helped him paint the room, and after enough cajoling, Lisa was allowed to pick up a roll and start slathering the walls as well. The color did nothing to calm her down, and the fresh paint smell was terrible, but it was nice, quietly working with her family to get a task done. She wished they could do it more often, but Brad was off working and had bought his own place, and Grandpa wasn’t any fun to be around when Brad was away. When she was alone with Grandpa, all he did was lecture her non-stop about how she needed to shape up and be better.

“I’ve tried everything I could,” he said. “I think…there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

“What are you saying?”

“Your father and I have been talking—”

She jumped up. “No, you haven’t! You _never_ talk!”

“Lisa, you are more important than any disagreements we have. Can’t you see we’re concerned about you?”

“I’m fine! There’s nothing wrong with me!”

He sighed and shook his head. “We’ve decided that you’ll move back to your dad’s home. You’ll have a fresh new start there: a new school, a new town, hopefully, new friends—”

“I won’t do it!” She yelled. “I’m not going back there! You can’t make me!”

“SHUT UP!” Grandpa’s voice washed over her, louder than a lion’s roar. Her eyes went as wide as saucers. Grandpa’s face was dark with shadows, and he breathed heavily, more animal than man. Lisa’s heart slammed against her chest so hard it almost burst.

After a few minutes, he took a deep breath and scowled at her. “It’s been decided. Pack your things. We’re leaving tomorrow morning.”

* * *

Lisa _did_ pack her things—but she left long before the morning sun lit up the earth.

Instead, she slipped out under the cover of darkness, her heavy backpack full of clothes, water bottles, and medicine. She’d run away enough times to know what to bring; last time she only brought chips and a candy bar. Now, she brought granola bars and sunscreen, along with an extra pair of shoes.

There were no friends whose couches she could crash at. She was all alone. It was terrifying, but there was something strangely freeing about walking through a slumbering world. Above her, the sky was dark blue and speckled with shining stars. There wasn’t a single light in the neighborhood, and all she could hear was the faint chorus of crickets.

 _I can do anything I want,_ she thought. _I’m free._

She’d emptied Grandpa’s wallet, but it wasn’t enough to buy anything life-changing. Endless opportunities unfolded before her; she wasn’t sure where to start. After 30 minutes of walking aimlessly, she decided to go as far away as possible.

Her feet carried her to that familiar bus stop, where she bought a ticket from the machine. Her destination was a city she’d never been to before, but it was the farthest place she could afford. As she waited on the cold, metal bench, she rubbed her tender wrists. Last night, she’d been so overwhelmed she hurt herself, unable to think straight under the suffocating weight of her future. Only after red rivers trickled down her hands could she catch her breath and clear her mind. That was how she got this idea: hunched over in her corner, hyperventilating, and scarring herself. Maybe she truly _was_ sick, but there was no help she’d get from her father.

Plenty of sick people survived in the world. Some of the girls at school taunted her, saying, “You’re not special,” but Lisa reinterpreted the words, transforming them into a calming motto. _I’m not special_ meant _Surely someone else has been through this. I can’t be the only one. I’m not that special. And if other people have gone through this and survived, then so can I._ It gave her hope that she would be okay.

She had bandaged up her wrists, hissing at the pain, before packing. Now, she rested her chin on her knees and waited until the 5 a.m. bus rolled up. The driver was an unfamiliar face; the car’s metal entrails were empty of life. Content, Lisa moved to the backseat and fell into a fitful sleep. Every time she opened her eyes, there were more heads filling the bus, lit up by a world that gradually shifted from dark blue to light azure.

Fluffy clouds drifted across the peaceful sky, and Lisa filled her thoughts with her next steps. First, she should track down a good place to sleep. Maybe she could find a nice, secluded spot in a local park, or perhaps she could sneak into a library or café and sleep behind some furniture after closing time. It was a far-fetched idea, but she was thin and good at making herself small; maybe the employees wouldn’t find her. Anything would be better than sleeping out in the open, where wolves or worse could find you.

She spent countless hours sitting on the bus. Eventually, she grew so bored that she berated herself for not bringing a book. Instead, she peered through the aisles to people-watch. There were some interesting conversations, but mostly she tried to imagine where people were going. A man in a business suit with a briefcase could be on his way to an important meeting—or maybe just a cheese convention. A woman with a green dress and a whining child could be on her way to church or a theme park. An old couple who whispered to one another might be coming home from a long, relaxing trip to Fiji. On and on her mind went, until it bled dry.

When she was around 80 miles from home, the bus lurched to a stop and a new driver took over. People poured out into their new destination, a beautiful town by the sea. Lisa was one of nearly ten people left on the bus, and when she saw the new driver’s face, she scuttled to an empty spot in the front.

“Mr. Hernandez?”

The man burst into a sunny grin. “If it isn’t Miss Independent! I wasn’t expecting to see you until the summer. What’s got you all the way out here?”

Lisa settled into the front seat, meeting his eyes in the rear-view mirror. “I’m off to visit family.” The lie slipped off her tongue, smooth as butter. “But they’re all the way over in Marble.”

"Geez, that's a long way off!" Hardy shook his head. "I swear, if you were a little older, I'd tell you to be a travel writer. You sure know your way around Olathe. Could make a good living off that, and it’d be fun too. Hell, I drive everywhere—maybe _I_ should do it!” He laughed at the thought, closing the door and setting off. As the bus drove down the road, he continued: “I've been there before. It's a tiny town with only around... hmm, 130 people? Though I will tell you, the mountains are beautiful. They’ve got a big stone quarry. While you’re there, you should check out the mill. It’s on a beautiful river, full of trout. You into fishing?"

Lisa grinned, glad to speak after a long day of silence. “Never. Do you and your sons like to fish?”

His eyes twinkled. “You remembered my boys, huh? Yeah, I took ’em out a few summers ago, but they were too small to keep calm. They kept bouncing around and scaring the fish! You can imagine what happened.”

“Did you fall over?”

“We sure did! The boat completely tipped over and every one of us got drenched. I learned that day some of my boys are better swimmers than others. Poor Fardy sunk like a stone, but Lardy—always the leader!—got him. Tardy was flailing around and screaming, but I swear it was just drama. He was fine, but he thought it would be funny to make a scene. Meanwhile, Shardy just floated on his back. He didn’t even care!"

That was the most interesting part of his story. He went on about how they got back on the boat and went out for lunch since they couldn’t catch any fish, then switched to something completely different. Although his tales were far from fascinating, he spoke with a friendly familiarity Lisa had rarely known. People back home avoided her, convinced by her reputation that she wasn’t worth the trouble to be around. Most adults talked down to her, but Hardy Hernandez was sympathetic and respectful.

Talking with him made her feel like a different person. He didn’t know that she hit other kids and cussed and made endless messes her poor Grandpa had to clean up. He saw her as an independent person with thoughts that mattered.

Talking with him drew out a side of her that had long gone dormant. She chattered cheerfully instead of sulking silently, and the change filled her with optimism. Yes, it would be dangerous, surviving all alone in the world, but maybe this would be good for her. Maybe this was her chance to find herself, without being tethered down by her past mistakes and other people’s expectations. Maybe there was a good girl hiding underneath the layers of dirt and shame and evil.

Living alone would be a good thing, Lisa decided. She made up her mind that this was going to work, and she was going to be happy no matter where she was. Nothing could be worse than the alternative.

She’d rather sleep on a foreign city’s dirt than in her dad’s bed.

When they finally reached Marble, Lisa thanked him and prepared to leave. “Oh, wait! Before you go, there’s something I completely forgot.” Hardy rifled through his glove compartment before pulling out a crumpled pink note. “Your friend wanted me to give this to you.”

Lisa stared at the paper in confusion. A phone number was scribbled in red ink, next to a big smiley face. “Who?”

“Bernard, of course! Don’t you remember him?”

The kind, friendly face popped into her mind. Of course, she remembered him—he was the nicest person she’d ever met, the only one who made her smile till her cheeks hurt, but she never expected to see him again. What were the odds they’d be on the same bus in the future? She had chalked their meeting up to a happy coincidence and pushed him from her mind, sad that she might never meet another sweet boy like him. Now she held concrete proof that he wanted to see her again, and her heart fluttered. “Wh-when did you get this?”

“I think it was...oh, a few weeks after you guys met. I happened to be driving when his family came on, and he asked if you were there. I said no, but he ran up and down the aisle anyway, checking just in case.” He smiled warmly. “He really wanted to speak with you again, so he wrote down his phone number and asked me to give it to you when you came back. I told him I might not be there when you came back, but he was adamant. Isn’t that sweet?”

Lisa’s face sizzled. She couldn’t believe someone would put forth that much effort to see her again. She wasn’t special. How could he have remembered her months later? Why would he want her to call? Although she couldn’t understand why Bernard would ask after her, the thought filled her with gratitude. She held the note close to her chest and grinned. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s no problem at all!” He laughed and pulled the bus door open. “Actually, thank _you_. Time went by much faster when I was talking to you. It’ll be tough now, driving down this lonely road!”

She laughed back, stepping onto the dirt path. “I’m sure you’ll survive.” She waved until the bus drove away, and even though she was alone at night in a strange and small town, she couldn’t fight the happiness that lifted her heart. Even as she wandered through the streets until she found a park, even as she shivered in her cold dirt bed beneath a clump of bushes, she couldn’t fight a smile when she cradled Bernard’s note to her heart.


	14. Lisa III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you [enjoy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1JXKUyWV33w) this chapter!

When Lisa first moved to Grandpa’s house, she was inconsolable.

Although it must have been insufferable to hear loud cries in the middle of the night, Brad never held it against her. Even though he surely had troubles of his own, since he had to adjust to a new school, he comforted her instead of complaining. Night after night, he came to her room, cradling her close and singing until she fell asleep.

It took a full week before Lisa adjusted to her new surroundings and stopped crying, but Brad never lost his tenderness. Some of her earliest memories are of him brushing her hair and singing softly. Although he had a terrible voice, Lisa always lied and told him it was great because she didn’t want him to stop. He only sang when they were alone, and when they were alone, he revealed his true self; there was no world to call him away, no work demanding his time, no friends making him turn into a different person and ignore her. In moments like that, he was hers alone.

On the streets, there was no one to sing her to sleep.

When hunger struck like a hammer to the head, Lisa would spend all day walking around whichever city she was in, searching for fallen money. Machines were good for coins—there was always a penny or two on the metallic underbellies—and sometimes, if she was lucky, she’d find a dollar on the ground. One day, she found a wallet with twelve dollars in a parking lot. It was such an exciting find she immediately blew it all on food, which she regretted later, but in the moment, it was the most delicious burger and fries she’d ever tasted.

That kept her full for the rest of the day, and at nighttime, she searched for a place to sleep. Although the days were bearable, the nights were grim and difficult. She struck gold when she found an abandoned car to sleep in, but she woke to the sounds of men rattling the doors open and ran so fast they yelled in surprise. After that, she never went back, too afraid of being kidnapped or worse. One night, she slept beneath a bridge, and it was so cold she spent most of the night shivering, cursing her clacking teeth and hating God for giving her this life.

There were some rays of hope, though. In one city, Lisa met a kind person at a gym who let her use their shower. The hot water was so wonderful, she had cried out in ecstasy. Little pleasures became her world, sustaining her through the crippling hunger and constant unease. She had to be vigilant to stay safe; there were too many creeps out there who thirsted for weakness. They never expected her punches and jabs, and by the time they recovered from surprise, she would run far, far away.

She was still bitter over having to leave Marble. It was every bit as beautiful as Mr. Hernandez had said. One day, she sat beside the rushing river and drank in Mother Nature’s song: the winds, the water, and the birds blended together in a simple yet soothing symphony. She felt at peace.

Later, at a diner, a man kept staring at her over his newspaper. He spoke with the waitress, pointed at his page, and then the waitress stared, too. When the waitress came to take away Lisa’s plates, she frowned. “Where are your parents?”

“Not here,” Lisa said lightly, looking as innocent as she could.

The waitress squinted like she wasn’t sure of what she saw. “Obviously. You’re not from here, are you?”

“No.”

“Is your family looking for you?” The smile froze on Lisa’s face. “You’re far from home, aren’tcha?”

They had recognized her from a photo in the newspaper. Lisa wasn’t important enough to make the front page of _The Crystal Valley Echo,_ but there was a large school photo of her frowning face near the back, right above a short paragraph describing her height, weight, and missing status. It was infuriating. Even though she was hundreds of miles away, her family still chased after her, desperate to drag her back to their web.

That night, in a public bathroom, Lisa glared at her reflection and hacked at her hair until she looked nothing like the long-haired girl in the newspaper. Now, she had a jagged black bob that crawled just beneath her ears. With her baggy black jeans and an oversized white shirt, she looked far more like a boy than the missing Lisa Armstrong. There was one thing wrong, though: Dad always said her eyes were her most distinctive feature, so she hid them beneath greasy bangs. Now, she was unrecognizable, just another rando who blended into the world’s blurry background.

Once, in a documentary about the Great Depression, she had learned that people used to hop on boxcars to travel the country. Lisa asked around for the train tracks and decided to try her luck. Fortune was on her side: She successfully slipped into an empty cabin and watched the scenery until the train stopped in a city full of looming mountains with eerie green trees. Lisa traveled the streets until she reached the mountain’s base, where a small sign described the Bloodmoon trees. They were fascinating, leaking cherry sap like bloody tears down their bark—but the area was off-limits to tourists and she was chased off.

Although it was tough to slip onto trains, and Lisa often hurt herself sneaking in or out, it was kind of fun, too, being all alone in the world. Or at least, she told herself that as often as she could. If she didn’t fill her thoughts with cheer, she might collapse in despair. Everything became ten times harder, even things she had never given much thought to. Relieving herself became degrading; most of the time she could use public restrooms, but once or twice she had to go in nature, or in a corner of a boxcar, and it filled her with shame and disgust. Searching for a safe place to pass the night—and then sleeping with one eye open—was a source of constant stress. Sometimes, she stank so badly it made her sick. She moved through the world as a foul-smelling skeleton wrapped in a thin layer of flesh.

Her only relief came from the libraries where she took shelter in. Although she looked bad and smelled worse, they were quiet and safe, and she was left alone, even when people caught her cleaning herself in the sinks.

In the library, she could rest her aching back on a bean bag and forget about the world for a while. Reading took her away to far-off lands of impossibility, where good people were rewarded, and bad people were punished. There were heroes she could see herself in, people who were good at heart but who made mistakes and were hated and misunderstood. Seeing her struggles reflected in books with happy endings gave her hope, and she became closely acquainted with libraries in every city she visited. Books were her oasis from the daily shame of begging, filth, and mistreatment.

In those cold, blurry days, Lisa was too focused on survival to track the time. It was only when the world filled with pink balloons and crimson roses that she realized she’d been gone for a little over a month. Windows in every shop were filled with Valentine’s Day signs, advertising sales, events, and holiday goods. Lisa walked through the city in amazement, shocked that she’d missed the passing of her own birthday on February 12.

The realization struck her to the core. Instead of being inside a warm house, enjoying cake and presents, she’d been shivering and alone and starving and ghost-like. She’d been alone in the world for a month, and she hadn’t had a decent conversation with a friendly person in what felt like forever. How could she have only been gone for a month? How could she keep going on like this?

Lisa felt so lonely, she considered going back home. Maybe Grandpa would take her back instead of sending her to dad—but in 12 years, she’d never known the two of them to work together. Both preferred to think of the other as dead. Bad blood ran as deep as a cavern between them, so if they put aside their hatred of one another to come to an agreement, it must be set in stone. There would be no way Lisa could go back to living in Grandpa’s house if he’d sell her to Marty.

The thought made her want to throw up. _None of this would have happened if I had just listened to Brad and Grandpa,_ she thought. _Why did I have to see Dad? Why couldn’t I have just let it be?_ Lisa could have choked on her self-hatred; her wrists tingled, so she tried to look for distractions.

All around her, people roamed with happy faces. It seemed that everyone in the world was enjoying Valentine’s Day, except for her. She peered out of a restaurant’s windows to see families dining together between warm, yellow walls. When Lisa saw a laughing girl bouncing on her father’s laugh, she ran away. The sight was so sweet she went sick with envy, her empty stomach churning and her fists aching to smack the smile off her face.

Instead, Lisa shoved her hands deep in her pockets and wandered the city, searching for warmth and seclusion. A café kicked her out at the closing time, so she slunk back to the park and fell asleep in a dark, private area—but it wasn’t so sheltered after all, since she woke up to a hard boot bruising her side and strange men yelling for her to get out. Startled, she scrambled away, angry at them yet disgusted with her own weakness. Moments like this made her feel worthless, less than human.

It was early morning, and the homeless men settled the space they’d stolen. They would sleep in the spot she had kept warm until the morning sun lit up the sky, but Lisa would have to wander in search of a safer place. Perhaps she could sleep later during the day. There was a library a few blocks away, so she settled her backpack on her shoulders and shivered on her way over. The day was already off to a bad beginning, but it worsened when the sky opened and unleashed a torrent of drenching rain.

Lisa wanted to shake her fist at the cruel sky for soaking her in its heavy tears, but she was distracted by a box of candy standing atop an overflowing trash can. To her surprise, it was half-full of chocolate malt balls. Stomach twisting in hunger, Lisa shoved the box into her sopping jacket pocket and fed herself one at a time, savoring the sweet, chalky flavor that mixed with the water in her mouth.

The treat took her back to better times, when she was a cheerful toddler running around in colorful Halloween outfits. Brad didn’t like to dress up, but some years, she persuaded him to wear a costume that matched hers. He would grumble and groan, but he always smiled in Grandpa’s pictures. Lisa suddenly wished she had brought one of those photos with her. A vivid image filled her mind of her and Brad standing in front of the small, yellow house, both in brown dog costumes and big, fluffy tails.

It was one of their rare family photos, and she always liked seeing it over the fireplace. Thinking about it made Lisa’s eyes sting with tears, and she tilted her head up at the sky so no one would catch her crying. _I miss Brad so much._ If she focused hard, she could imagine his heavy hand ruffling her hair, the crinkle of his smiling eyes. “Ready to learn some new moves?” He would ask, and she’d slip a bookmark into her story and run after him in excitement.

That was long ago when she was a clumsy little girl and not a stupid, worthless slut. She missed the days when Brad and she were close. Even if he didn’t like her anymore, Lisa would give just about anything to see him again. She felt like the insect corpse washing down the street’s storm drain.

The taste of chocolate-covered her tongue when lights crept upon her peripheral vision. Shivering, she turned to see a rusty, old, grey truck pulling up. A tinted window rolled down to reveal a young man with long, brown hair smiling from the driver’s seat. “Well, hello there.”

It had been forever since Lisa spoke to such a friendly person. She smiled back tentatively, conscious of the rain running down her face.

“You okay, sweetie?” The guy asked. She nodded and started to walk away, but the car inched forward, keeping pace with her. “Why are you out here all alone?”

Lisa shrugged, wondering why he cared, but she eyed him in hope. Maybe he would be a friendly stranger who offered some food or directions. Usually, she had to approach people for help, but occasionally someone would ask if she was lost. They never stuck around, but maybe this man would be different. Maybe he could be a friend, like Mr. Hernandez.

“You must be freezing cold! Why don’t you hop in and dry up? I’ve got a towel you can use.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Lisa said. Although he seemed friendly, she wasn’t going anywhere with a stranger. She waved at him and walked away, her freezing feet squelching with every step she took. As the rain pounded her skin and plastered her hair to her flesh, she thought about a documentary she’d once watched in which stranded hikers got hypothermia.

“Whoa, there!” There was laughter beside her, and the man’s red, wet lips spread in a playful grin. “Are you sure, sweetie? You’re soaking. Forgot your umbrella at home?”

“I’m okay. I like the rain.” As Lisa spoke, doubt dampened her resolve. Her body was freezing, and she would have given anything to go someplace warm and dry her sodden feet.

“Nothin’ wrong with liking rain. But this right here?” He pointed to the sky and leaned forward; his white shirt was stained with grease. “I’d call this too much of a good thing. Like daddy used to say, 'Let the rain kiss you... but once she gets too handsy, go back inside!' _Haaaaaaaa!_ "

Lisa stepped back at the loud laughter. He watched her with eager eyes, one hand on the wheel and the other leaning over the wet car door. “Why don’t I give you a ride home?”

She peered at him, thoughtfully, and took him in: His car looked like a wreck, with trash strewn everywhere. Beer cans littered the backseat, and old fast food wrappers filled the seat beside him. Despite his ragged car and dirty clothes, he was cheerful—perhaps too much so. Still, he seemed non-threatening. Maybe he was like her: dirty and gross on the outside, but kind and decent inside. When Lisa coughed, rainwater trickled down her throat, tarnishing the chocolate on her tongue. It would be nice to eat without water gushing down her face.

She took a malt ball from my pocket and ate it, considering the offer. Sudden anger flashed in the man’s eyes, and she flinched. For some reason, he seemed upset that she was eating while talking to him. Immediately, she tensed up, recognizing the irrational, hair-trigger temper she suffered through during the summers.

“No, thank you,” she said firmly.

His disturbed glare transformed into a more relaxed expression. "Are you sure?" He drawled, trying to sound nonchalant despite the tension. "I don't mind stopping by the store and grabbing something for you. A treat, on me." Pale, brown eyes roamed over her frame, from her head to her toes. “You’re looking awfully skinny, sweetheart. I wouldn’t mind putting some meat on those bones.”

Something in his tone made her sick, and when his eyes dragged over her wet chest, her father’s lust burned in her mind. Lisa took a quick step back, startled—and then ran like wind.

“HEY!” His voice screeched like a sour violin note. Lisa’s wet, heavy boots slapped down on the pavement as she dashed away. Beside her, the truck surged ahead of her, and the man was yelling something, but Lisa couldn’t tell what he was saying over her booming heartbeat and the crashing rain ahead and the wet smack of her sopping shoes. The rickety, grey truck lurched to a stop, and the car door flew open. Lisa turned on her heel and dashed in the opposite direction—but she slipped on something and slammed down on the hard ground.

“Gotcha!” Strong hands snatched her wrists hauled her, arm-first, into the air. Lisa screamed so loudly her throat went raw, and then she screamed some more as she kicked, flailed, and struggled to free herself. The man swore when her teeth found flesh, but his grip tightened as he dragged her backward, towards the filthy car. Sickening laughter rippled goosebumps across her flesh. "Like daddy used to say, 'The price of success is hard work.'" His hot breath fanned her. "And I plan to work you hard…"

“NO!” Lisa screamed louder than thunder, thrashing in his iron grip. A hand clamped over her mouth, and Lisa dug her teeth into his skin, tasting blood and twisting away to kick his groin. The man grunted in pain, and finally, his hands loosened. Lisa tore off like a cheetah and screamed, running into the street before an oncoming car.

“Help!” She shouted. “Please, help me!”

Light flooded her vision as the green car screeched to a stop. “What is wrong with you?” A man yelled out the window, and Lisa ran up to him.

“That man just tried to kidnap me! Please, call the police!”

What happened next was a blur. The old, grey truck zoomed off and the man in the second car only said, “Stay here!” before tearing off after it, vacuums rattling in his backseat. Dust and smoke filled the air as the cars rushed out of her vision, and Lisa wasn’t sure if she should stay or not. Part of her wanted to leave—get the hell out of here in case anything else happened—but she didn’t want to let down the man in the second car. What if he caught the bad guy and called the police, but the bad guy claimed there was no girl? What if the man who had stuck his neck out for her got in trouble? Lisa constantly got in trouble over misunderstandings. She didn’t want to make anyone else go through that, especially if they were willing to help her, so she leaned up against a nearby tree and crouched down, hugging her knees tight to her chest and crying silently.

She waited until her tears dry and waited longer after that. Eventually, the cries of police sirens grew closer, and Lisa looked up to find the man who had helped her running up with a police officer. “That’s her!” He said, his wide face red with exertion, his green shirt stained with sweat. “That’s the girl who asked for help.”

A tall, burly officer lumbered over and offered his hand to help her up. He took her to the police station, where he asked her what had happened. She answered to the best of her ability, but when he started asking questions about who she was and where she lived, her lips clamped shut.

“Miss? Can you answer me?”

Lisa shook her head no, wet bangs flopping over her face.

“Where does your family live?”

Lisa couldn’t speak; the same snake that uncoiled itself when she thought of Marty stretched over her tongue and hissed in resistance to all his questions. Soon, the policeman’s patience melted away, leaving anger in its wake. “You can sleep in a cell if you don’t want to answer,” he said, so she nodded and sat behind the bars. The bed was as hard as a stone, and there were no blankets or pillows, so Lisa put her head on her soaking backpack and slept through the night, dreaming of spiders crawling over her flesh, leaving no stretch of skin untouched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, that was an intense chapter.
> 
> Here's another piece of not-so-fun trivia for this chapter. Lisa's near-kidnapping is an amalgamation of things that happened to my mom and I when we were little girls. Back in the 70's, my mom was eating malt balls and walking home in the rain when a creepy pervert started following her home and pressuring her to get into his car. She was 13 at the time, and no matter how much she told him to back away, he wouldn't leave her alone. 
> 
> It was a really scary situation. Luckily, she went into a nearby neighbor's house, who let her in when the asshole wouldn't leave her alone. Eventually, he drove away and she was able to go home. 
> 
> When I was a very little girl--around 11 or 12, I think--I also had a situation in which a dirty old man tried to get me into his car. I was with my grandma at the time; she was driving me to school, but it was raining so hard she couldn't read the road signs and we wound up in a sketchy neighborhood, where her car broke down. She called a man to come over to fix the car, and the whole time he kept leering at me and touching me. 
> 
> Later, he asked if I wanted to see some tools in his car. I wasn't sure, so he said he'd help me up, and he put his hands under my arms and lifted me up, hard, and I was terrified. I yelled no and struggled, but he was so strong, he started carrying me to his car anyways. Thank God, my grandma looked outside and ran out, screaming at him to let me down, but he just laughed and said, "I'm only joking. There's no need to get so upset." It's a good thing nothing happened, but it really rattled me at the time.
> 
> Anyway, that turned into an essay, but that's the background for this chapter. Lisa had optimistic feelings about being alone, but being homeless puts you in an INCREDIBLY dangerous situation that makes you vulnerable prey for sick-minded predators. And who's one of the biggest predators in the LISA series?
> 
> Fucking Bolo Bugaughtiichi. I always wondered what Bolo was like before The Flash, and I'm convinced he was the exact type of creepy pedophile who would try to hurt little girls. On the bright side, Olan was there and Lisa was able to ask for help. (Could you tell it was Olan? I didn't tag him because it wasn't explicit, and I didn't want to clutter his character tag, but that's a little fun fact for you.)
> 
> Thanks for reading if you got this far, and I hope you enjoyed it!


	15. Lisa IV

It’s a beautiful day when Lisa blows out the candles on her birthday cake.

It’s a belated celebration, but it’s also bigger and better than any party she’s ever had. Kids from her class insisted on coming, and they run through her halls and sing a discordant chorus of “Happy Birthday.” Grandpa bought her an enormous, colorful cake, with thick, cream cheese frosting, edible roses, and vanilla layers (normally she had chocolate cakes, but she can’t stand the taste now).

She knows they’re only here because her face was on their parents’ newspapers and their morning milk cartons, but it’s nice, nonetheless. Lisa’s never had a friendship that lasted very long, so the friendly faces and cheerful attention fills her stomach with happy butterflies. 

Kids smile at her and pepper her with presents in colorful papers, and their parents tell her how happy they are to see her home safe. Even some of the girls Lisa fought with are there, blushing in shame and apologizing for treating her so badly. (They brought especially large presents.)

Everyone wants to know what the last few months have been like. Lisa drinks in their eager eyes and spins dust into gold, bragging about the beautiful places she saw and the adventures she had, leaving out all of the pain and discomfort. They’re excited with her stories, fascinated by what she’s painted as a split-second decision to travel the country and live alone. None of them understands what she went through—and that’s exactly how she wants it.

The vanilla cake tastes wonderful, and across the room, she meets Brad’s eyes and smiles. He’s decided to move back in so he can help take care of her, and they’re going to go to a theme park after this and spend the whole day together. He and Grandpa are proud of her for fighting back, and Marty’s far, far away, never to be seen again.

People are happy to see her, the room is warm, and there’s so much delicious food Lisa could burst. Life is wonderful, and things are finally starting to look up.

That’s what Lisa wishes would happen—but reality could never match her hope.

* * *

Edwin Armstrong sighs as the phone rings in his ear. “She’s back,” he says, by way of greeting.

“Thank God! Where’d they find her?”

“Nearly 100 miles away, wandering through some neighborhood.”

“Christ. How is she?”

“Seems okay. Very…sweet. And thankful. She won’t tell us anything, except that she’s all right and nobody touched her.”

“Good. I can’t wait to see her — I’m gonna head out now.”

“Don’t.”

“What? It’s time for her to come home!”

“She _is_ home.”

“Dad, we already agreed to this! You can’t back out now. I don’t know what you did to make her leave, but—”

“I told her she was going to live with you. That’s when she left.”

“ _You’re_ the reason she ran away. You messed her up just like you ruined me! I served my time. I’m a free man. I’m taking my baby home.”

“Listen to me. She snuck out right after I said she’d move to your place. Why would she do that? What did you do?”

“You’re the last person who has any right to question me as a father!”

“Martin… I’ve changed. I made my mistakes with you, but—”

“Y’know what? Fuck that. You made mistakes with _me?_ What about what you did to _mom_? You hurt her more than you ever hurt me!”

“…I made my peace with your mother. Don’t drag her into this.”

“I’ll never forgive you for what you did to her. The _least_ you can do is bring my daughter home, where she belongs.”

“…Fine.”

Edwin Armstrong hangs up the phone and holds his head in his hand, tears running down his weathered cheeks.

* * *

Lisa doesn’t speak during the drive. At first, Grandpa tries to talk to her—“Your dad will walk you through your new school. You’ll get a private tour. Won’t that be fun?”—but she stonewalls him until he finally shuts up.

He’s betrayed her for the last time. He wouldn’t even let her get on the bus alone because he was afraid of her running away again. Instead of letting her stay home, he refused. Now, he’s dead to her.

Nothing will ever change. She sees that now.

Only she can save herself.

* * *

Brad’s old school is small and stark, with pale brown walls and white-trimmed windows.

Dad’s changed back into the man he was when they first met, looking clean and neat in his best brown suit. He dressed up when they met at the bus station and dragged her off the bus into a suffocating hug she didn’t want. Instead of helping Lisa move her things into her new home, Grandpa chose to stay on the bus and get off at the next stop, simply because he didn't want to meet Marty. “Arrogant bastard,” dad hissed on the ride home. “Thinks he’s too good to step foot in my house. Well, joke’s on him. I fixed the place up, all for my special, pretty girl.”

The house was still hideous on the outside and dilapidated on the inside, but dad had patched up the holes in the wall, and it no longer smelled like booze and piss. Dad puffed up with pride when she walked through the door, acting like he deserved a medal for not living in squalor. Lisa wonders how long it will last.

Now, dad grips her hand and leads her to her new middle school. Daisies line the stony path to the front door, and the laughter of children carries over from the playground. Inside, the halls are grimy and scuffed with the shoe marks of a hundred tiny feet, though there are colorful posters and banners declaring various fundraisers and events. One flyer says there will be a bake sale next Friday.

Dad follows her eyes and nudges her side. “That’ll be fun, huh? Maybe we can make some cookies.”

Lisa frowns. “You don’t bake.”

“Well,” he huffs and looks away, “it’s never too late to learn.”

The main office looks dingy under its harsh, fluorescent lighting, but the elderly lady at the front desk smiles and hands Lisa a grape lollipop, which she shoves into her pocket for later. She’s still unused to friendly strangers, but they’re more common now that she looks less like a homeless boy and more like a well-groomed girl.

A trip to the salon during a so-called “daddy-daughter day” scrubbed away all signs of her rough time on the road: Her hair went from a jagged mane to a small, neat bob, and her nails were painted sparkly pink at dad’s insistence. He’s been working extra hard to make her happy, but she’s been stubborn, refusing to smile for him. Strangely enough, her silence makes him work harder to please her; he bought a new, soft turtleneck sweater, which Lisa likes because it hides her body. It’s a creamy white color that makes her golden pendant stand out, and it goes well with her blue jeans and crimson boots. She’s still bitter about the move, but it’s nice to have clothes that aren’t ruined and ridden with holes. 

“Oh, hello there! Is this our new student?” A woman walks out of a side office and crouches down to Lisa’s level. A lock of long, brown hair slips over her shoulders, and her almond-shaped eyes sparkle with sweet excitement. “Welcome to your new school! How are you liking it so far?”

“Um…” Lisa looks down, suddenly anxious.

“Oh, well, how can I expect you to answer when you haven’t seen anything yet? Let’s go!”

They walk through the rest of the school, listing off the cafeterias, classrooms, and so on. Lisa’s unimpressed, save for an indoor swimming pool that looks nice. She doesn't know how to swim, but it might be fun to learn.

“And here’s the playground. Why don’t you look around?” The woman gestures forwards, and Lisa glances at her father for permission. He frowns, obviously not wanting her to leave, but since he doesn’t say anything, Lisa takes the opportunity to escape his stifling presence.

Lisa walks past a series of giant planters with bright, yellow roses. Some kids are sitting on the small, mosaic-covered walls that surround the plants, chowing down on their lunches and babbling about class, games, and movies. Black asphalt spreads as far as the eye can see, holding a basketball court, a hopscotch area, and colorful chalk drawings a gang of kids are adding to. Three girls are drawing orange lines to bring a jumping lion to life, while a group a few steps away is playing a jump rope game. It looks fun, but Lisa suddenly feels small and shy, overwhelmed by the noise after weeks of solitude.

A few kids stare at her, but she’s not special enough to warrant too much attention, so she slips by the lunch benches and handball courts unbothered. She settles at a large, grassy area with enormous trees whose branches stretch towards the cerulean sky. Sighing, she sits upon an old’s tree’s winding roots, watching her future classmates playing and enjoying their lives.

 _How am I going to fit in with them?_ Lisa tries to imagine walking up to a group and asking to play. They would probably wrinkle their noses and say no—or, if they were kind enough to say yes, they might go suddenly quiet, awkward around her strange and unsettling presence. Maybe she could impress them with the story of how she ran away from home—or maybe they’d ask _why_ she ran away, and then she’d have to come up with an interesting lie that she’d have to hide behind forever. Her thoughts take her far away, and she loses track of her surroundings until a quiet voice says, “Hello?”

Lisa flinches. A boy stands beside her, one hand resting on the tree’s bark, the other lifting his long, blonde bangs so he can see her better. When Lisa meets his blue gaze, she bursts into a smile and jumps up. “Hi, Bernard!”

“Oh my gosh, it _is_ you! Hi!” Bernard steps forward, as if to hug her, then leans back and smiles shyly. “I thought it was you, but I wasn’t sure with your new haircut.”

“Oh, yeah.” Lisa strokes her hair. “I wanted to try out a new look. People kept recognizing me, so I wanted to, you know, go undercover.”

“Why were people recognizing you? Are you famous or something?”

“Not really, but I was in a few newspapers,” she says. “I ran away, so my Grandpa put out an alert saying I was missing.”

“Whoa, you ran away?” Bernard’s eyes go wide.

“I did! I lasted almost a month before I got caught. It was amazing,” Lisa lies, leaning against the bark and crossing her arms in what she hopes is a cool pose. “I hopped on train cars and hitched rides, and I traveled through a bunch of different cities, hundreds of miles away.”

“That’s so cool!” Bernard looks so excited there might be stars in his eyes. Immediately, Lisa feels at ease, remembering how much he seemed like a puppy when they first met. He has the same sweet, wholesome enthusiasm now, and they fall into a conversation just as easily as they did before. He eats up her every word about the past few weeks, and she listens closely when he tells her all the important things about school: which teachers are cool, which kids to avoid, and which cafeteria foods are the best and worst.

“The pizzas are the _best,_ of course,” he’s saying. “We get it every Friday. But what you gotta do is avoid the Sloppy Joe. See, it looks good, but it tastes like ass.”

Lisa bursts out laughing, and his silly dolphin-snort joins in. “Man,” she says once she catches her breath. “I am _so_ happy you go to this school! I was worried I wouldn’t make any friends.”

“Oh…” He looks away, cheeks dusty pink. “So, we’re friends then?”

“Of course!”

“Good!” He smiles, but it’s ingenuine. “I was worried you didn’t like me, since you never called.”

Lisa thinks back to all the nights she spent alone, shivering from the cold but warm when she thought of his note. No matter how hard things got, she had physical proof that, even if she wasn’t special, there was someone in the world who wanted to speak with her. She’d been terrified of ruining it, of breaking whatever spell had made him want to see her again. How could she explain it? _I felt like I didn’t deserve to speak to you. I wanted to, but I was afraid if I did, you’d realize how wrong you were for liking me. I didn’t want you to know me better because then you wouldn’t like me. I thought it was better to leave you alone in case I ruined everything. I wanted to keep you perfect in my mind. I didn’t want to ruin you like I ruin everyone._

He could never understand. If she spoke, she’d only make herself look crazy. Instead, she hugs him.

Berny’s face is beet red when she pulls away. “Wh-what was that for?”

“I wanted to.”

He smiles through his blush, looking thoroughly flustered. “Heh-heh, I’m glad,” he says. “Hey, so, can I have your number? I just mean—if you’re not busy, I might like to talk to you. Um, unless you’re planning on running away again…?”

Lisa sighs. “Not now, but who knows what’ll happen?” The thought troubles her. Marty hasn’t turned—yet. Things are as she always hoped they would be, but he’s unpredictable and capable of staggering evils. As cautious as she is around him, naïve optimism nips at her anger. She can’t help but wonder if dad truly changed. _Maybe he’s learned his lesson. Now that he knows I won’t take it, he might be afraid of losing me again…_

She knows better than to trust him, though. If anything happens, she _will_ run away. She won’t stand for it. If she can survive homelessness once, she can do it again.

“Um, Lisa?” She snaps out of her reverie and gives him the numbers to her grandpa’s and dad’s houses. “I’m living with my dad now, but I might leave to go to my grandpa’s,” she explains.

Bernard, who had pulled out a small, black notebook to write the numbers down, glances up at her. “Really? Why?”

Lisa isn’t sure of what to say. As nice as Bernard is, she barely knows him, isn’t sure if he can handle the truth. She gives him a snippet instead: “My dad has… a mean streak. Sometimes, I can’t stand to be around him.” That doesn’t even touch upon the depths of his depravity, but it’s the best explanation she can give.

His eyes light up in sympathy. “I completely know what you mean. My dad is such an asshole! Er, pardon my French,” he adds quickly.

“Consider yourself unpardoned,” Lisa jokes. “I don’t mind if you cuss. In fact, feel free to French it up all around me.”

He snickers. “Right, I totally forgot about that! The first thing I ever heard you say was ‘Fuck off, bastard!’ to that creep on the bus.”

“I don’t think those were my _exact_ words, but yeah, you’re pretty close.” Lisa leans over to see Bernard scribbling down her numbers with a red pen. The paper is pink, just like the note he gave her. “What’s that?”

“Just my notebook.” He looks suddenly shy and moves it away.

“Do you like to write?”

“…Yeah.”

“That’s great! I don’t write, but I love reading. What kind of stories do you write?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t write…stories.” He looks away from her, his blue eyes guilty, and Lisa plucks the notebook from his hand. “Hey! Give it back!” He jumps forward to grab it, but Lisa holds it out of his reach.

“Why not?” She asks innocently. “Aren’t we friends?” 

Bernard pauses, confusion overriding the anger on his face. Lisa continues: “Do you like me?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Then let me look, and I’ll like you, too.”

She knows deep down she’s being nasty—but it’s for a good reason: he barely knows her, and she’s afraid that at any moment he might lose interest. Hopefully, she’ll find something in here they can connect over and have future conversations about. Flipping through the notebook reveals notes from class and scattered diary entries. _I hate my mom,_ he wrote on one page. _She’s such a bitch!_ On another: _I can’t wait till I’m older and I’m too big for dad to whoop me. I hate him so much, I can’t wait to hurt him back…_

It’s darker than anything she expected to see. She was hoping for some poetry or pictures they could look over, or maybe even notes about movies or books. Something light-hearted, some indication of a shared interest they could bond over. With a sinking stomach, she realizes that she may have shot herself in the foot. Maybe, he now sees her as a mean, pushy bitch he doesn’t want for a friend…

She turns another page to find a paper with jagged pen marks that cut deep into the paper. KILL LIST, the top of the page reads. On every line, a new person is listed by their first and last names, followed by a list of ways they’ve wronged him. _“Spit in my face and kicked my crotch,”_ one reads. _“Stole my friends and got me in trouble,”_ another reads. Looking through, Lisa learns that her new friend isn’t nearly as popular as she thought. She had seen his sweet face and friendly demeanor and assumed he had a loyal flock of friends. This tells a completely different story, one of a bullied boy, angry and alone at the bottom of the totem pole.

 _So, he’s not so sweet, after all._ Lisa glances up at Bernard, whose chubby face is twisted in guilt and anger. His big, blue eyes are wet, but he stubbornly keeps the tears from falling, as if he’s too proud to cry. On one hand, it’s startling to see this side of him—but on the other hand, Lisa’s relieved to know he’s not as perfect as she built him up to be in her head. Sweet Bernard isn’t too good for her, after all. He’s just like her: beaten down and angry at the world.

Her heart swells with newfound fondness.

Lisa smiles as though his glare weren’t burning a hole in her skin and hands him the book. She ignores the way he snatches it out of her hands, speaking like there’s nothing wrong. “That was interesting. Thanks for showing me.”

“I didn’t show it to you! I didn’t even want you to see it!”

“I’m glad I saw it.” Lisa keeps her voice low and calm. “I feel like I can trust you now. Friends shouldn’t keep secrets from each other…right?”

“I…” Bernard holds the notebook close to his chest, his eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t know.”

“I can help you.” Lisa steps forward. “I can teach you how to fight back against bullies.”

The anger melts from his face, replaced by surprise—and a sliver of doubt. “No, you can’t.”

“I _can._ My grandpa owns his own dojo, and my brother works as a martial arts instructor. I’ve been learning how to fight since I was old enough to walk!” Lisa jumps onto the grass and lowers her body into a crouch, lifting her fists above her face. “Do you even know why I’m transferring to this new school? It’s because I kept getting in fights and wiping the floor with the other kids.”

“No way!” Bernard looks excited now, back to his sweet, normal self.

His energy is contagious. Lisa grins at him. “ _Yes_ way. I once beat up three girls who had me cornered against the lockers. I smacked the first girl in her face and threw both her friends down in a matter of seconds.”

“That’s amazing! Can you show me?”

Lisa boasts about her moves to the most enthusiastic audience she’s ever received. Although she was afraid earlier that she’d crippled their budding friendship, he seems to have gotten over his anger and replaced it with excitement. They haven’t spent nearly enough time sparring together when Dad’s bellowing in the distance reaches her ears.

“HEY!” He yells, and Lisa realizes he must have seen Bernard throw a kick at her. She’d asked him to, wanted to see his stance so she could correct it, but of course, dad wouldn’t know that. Now, dad is racing towards them with bloodthirsty eyes.

“Dad, no!” She runs up to him, holding her hands out. “I asked him to!”

“What?” He grinds to a halt.

“I wanted to show him the Armstrong style!”

It was the wrong thing to say. Marty’s eyes darken with anger, and he grabs her arm and jerks it hard. “You don’t need any of that dumb karate shit your granddad does. It’s not for you.”

“Dad, fighting helped me protect myself when I was on the streets—”

“Well, you’re not on the streets anymore!” Dad bellows so hard his breath hits her face, and Lisa freezes. For a moment, she’s not on the playground anymore: She’s in bed, suffocating, and his alcohol breath washes over her. “You’re back home where you belong, and you’ll never have to fight again!”

She wants to move, but she can’t. She’s frozen, outside of her body, remembering what they did to her. Children around them have stopped their games to watch as dad shoves her out of the way and points a fat, accusing finger at Bernard. “And _you_ ,” he hisses. “If I ever catch you around my daughter, I’ll—"

“DON’T TOUCH HIM!” Lisa leaps in front of Bernard and holds her arms out, as wide as she can. “Don’t you dare lay a finger on him!” She’s screaming now, louder than she’s ever screamed before. It’s the first time she’s ever talked to dad this way, and a little part of her mind begs her to stop because this could hurt her later—but a bigger part is afire with rage. How _dare_ he try to steal her one and only friend! How _dare_ he threaten the one person on Earth who makes her cheeks hurt from smiling! He has no right! He took everything, but not this. She won't let him.

Dad takes a step back, shocked by the fury in her voice. It takes him a moment before he licks his lips and speaks, low and threatening: “You have no right talking to your daddy this way.”

“If you hurt him,” Lisa says, cursing the crack in her voice, “I will never forgive you. I will hate you forever, and I’ll never love you again.”

He’s shocked. He looks at her like she’s grown an extra head or like she’s a ghost that popped out of the graveyard. They stare at each other in the tensest moment of her life, and Lisa has never been more scared before. Not even the time she was almost abducted could match this.

As she looks into her father’s eyes, she realizes that he could kill her. She would snap like a stick in his meaty fingers, unable to defend herself. She couldn’t kill him—she tried and failed.

When he drags her away, past the crowds of staring children, past the startled office worker who guided them through the school, Lisa stays limp and silent, keeping her head down and staring at the ground. She's quiet all the way home, hoping It won't happen again.

* * *

Marty took off the mask that night.

Three days. _Three fucking days_ he lasted in his role as the normal, loving, and supportive father who wanted his runaway daughter to have a good life. For three days he treated her like a normal human being instead of a filthy, worthless puppet of meat.

Lisa should have known. She saw it coming, but she was foolish and hoped this wouldn’t happen instead. Now, she was hurting not only in body and soul, but in her mind, too. _I’m so fucking stupid,_ she thought.

Now she’s trapped and it’s all her fault and she knows if she just _kept her mouth shut_ , she wouldn’t be going through this, but she’s a dumb, worthless slut who was too idiotic to realize that monsters can’t change. They’re always monsters.

She cries and writhes under the grunting beast, but he’s too strong and he’s here to stay. He says as much, spitting evil into her ear: _“Why are you fighting so hard? Accept it... You can't fight something that already happened. There is no understanding, no purpose... There is only life, and this one is yours. Accept it... You’re here to stay."_

Lisa won’t accept it.

Dad falls asleep on top of her, his spit mingling with her hair, and she struggles until she’s free from his flesh-prison, throwing up on the floor and crying and packing her things and _leaving_.

This time, she has a back-up plan. Her razors burn a hole in her pocket. If he finds her, she knows what to do.


	16. Lisa V

She wakes up in the heart of the woods, with twigs in her hair and dirt in her mouth. This time she didn’t bring a backpack — desperation twisted her into a mindless animal focused only on escape. Her feet ache from running through the night, and she doesn’t remember falling asleep. Everything is hazy.

Lisa rubs the sand from her eyes. Her skin stings from the beginning of a sunburn, and she realizes it must be the late afternoon. She nears nothing except the swaying of leaves and distant birdsong.

Once again, she’s alone in the world, which means she needs to think straight, but no matter how hard she tries, she can’t get Marty out of her head. Every time she closes her eyes, his red, sweaty face is there. She sees him in the leaves of the trees, in shadows on the dirt, even in the distance, which makes her gasp and hide the first couple of times before she realizes it’s a trick from her broken mind.

“There is only one life, and this one is mine.” The words are like acid in her mouth, but she speaks them anyway, telling the wind her truth. “I will not suffer through this life. I will be free, or I will die.”

She touches her pocket, feeling the shape of sharp razors. It’s an ugly comfort, but it stills her racing heartbeat. It’s a back-up plan, a safeguard in case she doesn’t make it. She hopes not to need them — but a small, evil part of her whispers, _If you do it, you’ll be free forever. If you do it, he will never hurt you again._ Lisa must fight hard not to listen, but the idea is secretly thrilling. It would be unbearable, and she would die slowly, but it’s an awful death that she deserves. She’s not good enough for a slit throat or a noose. She’s a worthless slut who deserves to suffer.

“ ** _NO!_** " Lisa slaps herself; her head rings and her throat aches. “I am not evil. I don’t deserve to suffer.” She must speak the words aloud so they’re stronger than her thoughts. “No one deserves this. I may not be a good person, but even I deserve to live!”

She walks onward, focused only on putting one foot ahead of the other. Falling into her thoughts is dangerous; she needs to be strong because she’s all she has in the world. Lisa avoids the roads and runs when she hears footsteps. Instead, she stays hidden behind enormous trees, shielding herself with branches and bushes.

Eventually, she comes across a river, and she has a faint memory she can’t fully recall. She closes her eyes and sees Brad running with her through the soggy banks. He’s younger in her mind, a sweet, chubby kid with red cheeks that match his baggy shirt. There’s another person there, but Lisa can’t recall who. Could it have been her mom?

But no, she realizes, that’s impossible. Mom died when Lisa was only a few months old, driven mad by her own emotions. That’s how Grandpa explained it, but it never made sense. How could childbirth drive someone crazy? Then, she wheedled Brad into telling her more, and he mentioned an emptied bottle of sleeping pills beside her dying hands. Puzzle pieces fell into place, and Lisa grimly realized that she was the reason mom died.

 _If mom is dead because of me, I must live a good life — for both of us,_ Lisa thinks. But it’s hard to be brave, to content herself with a phantom instead of a flesh-and-blood mother. Did mom even _want_ her?

Lisa’s belly twists in hunger, but she tries not to think of it. Part of her wants to go into town and ask for food or money, but she’s too afraid of being caught, so she sings over her stomach’s groaning cries. _“From this valley, they say you are going, I will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile, For they say you are taking the sunshine, That has brightened our pathway the while…”_

* * *

There’s a woman standing below a giant tree.

Her back is to Lisa, but her long, black hair reaches her waist, and her head is tipped backward as she stares at the branches.

Lisa flinches at the sight; she hasn’t seen another person for days, and she’s terrified of being caught. Quiet as a mouse, she steps back so she can take the long way around the trees and avoid detection.

“Lisa... Is that you?” The woman’s voice is clear as a church bell. “I-I'm sorry. I didn't want to leave. Lisa, I love you.”

“ _Mom?_ ” Lisa gasps in shock and delight and surges forwards, wrapping her arms around her mother’s waist, hugging her tightly from behind. Tears shoot from her face, as powerful and unstoppable as a tsunami. She sobs like a child, happier than she’s ever been in her life. “Mom, I thought you were dead. I’m so happy I could die.”

“Look.”

A pale, grey hand points upwards, and Lisa sees strange fruit hanging from a high branch. At the bottom of a long line of rope, a woman in a black dress hangs from a ragged noose. Fiery hair obscures her face, but a gust of wind reveals that she has no eyes, ears, or mouth: only a bloody pit that drips red onto mom’s pointing finger.

Lisa jumps away like she’d been burned. “Mom, what is that?”

“It’s your legacy.” Lisa’s blood runs cold. “You’ll die by your own hand, as did I, as did your grandmother before me. Join us, Lisa.”

When mom turns around, she has Marty’s face.

“You can’t run!” It yells, but Lisa doesn’t listen. She runs until the woods swallows her whole.

* * *

Hunger must be the root of Lisa’s madness, because the next time she jerks awake from delirious dreams, she starts hallucinating food smells.

Somewhere close, her nose tells her, sweet beans are roasting on a campfire. Logic tells her it’s a figment of her imagination — but she can’t help but wonder, _Of all the food in the world, why would I dream about beans?_ When she’s starving, she craves raw, bloody steak or a thick piece of chicken to sink her teeth into. Beans are on the bottom of her most desirable food list.

With nothing left to lose, Lisa follows her nose, praying she won’t stumble into another terrifying delusion. She’s still shaken up by her mom, still sick from vomiting and crying. She must look like Hell, but she doesn’t care — it’s not like she’s going to run into anyone in the woods.

The smell brings her through a thicket of bushes, where a young man cooks a can of beans over a crackling fire. His back is to her, and his head of long, blond hair is bent down as he pokes and prods at the fire. Lisa creeps over and is pleasantly surprised to see he doesn’t have Marty’s face at all: His long face has hints of baby fat, and there’s a bulbous nose and ice-blue eyes with flecks of gold around the irises. Lisa read in a book once that every face you see in your dreams reflects someone you’ve seen before, but she can’t place her finger on who this person is. He does seem vaguely familiar…

Then he screams like a trapped mouse. His tall, thick figure stumbles backward over the log he sat on, and he scrambles in the dirt like a beetle on its back. It looks so silly that Lisa can’t help but laugh, and the boy’s mouth moves like a fish out of water.

“It’s _you!”_ He cries out, looking like he’s seen a ghost.

Lisa hides a smile behind her fingers. “Who am I?” She asks. If this is an illusion, it seems to be a funny one. She decides to stick around to see what strange dream her mind comes up with.

“I-I don’t know.” The boy’s ruddy face darkens, and he stands up, dusting his clothes. They’re filthy: His baggy jeans are riddled with holes and stains from food, dirt, and grass, and his giant jacket smells foul, like he plucked it straight from the garbage can and decided to swim in its tarnished fabric. “B-But…we’ve met before, I th-think.” He’s almost twice her size, even though they’re close in age. When his pale eyes peer down at her, Lisa gets a familiar feeling.

“You may be right,” she says, and her words are followed by a bellowing growl from her stomach. Beside the campfire, there’s a small, dented pan filled with food and a discarded can of beans. She stares at it hungrily, and the boy clears his throat and gestures to the upturned log he’s sitting on.

“You can, uh, join me, if you’d like,” he says, and Lisa can tell from his nervous expression that he doesn’t really want her here, but since he’s too polite to tell her to scram, she plops down beside him and hopes she doesn’t drool from the smell. Who knew _beans_ , of all things, could seem so delicious?

“Thanks!” She tries to sound chipper, but her gaunt face and ragged appearance betray her false cheer. The boy leans away from her like he’s afraid she’s a wood-sprite here to steal his soul. “I’m Lisa. What’s your name?”

He shakes her outstretched hand with all the enthusiasm of a dead fish. “I’m D-Dustin.”

“Nice to meet you. So, what are you doing alone out here, in the middle of the night?”

He frowns. “I c-could ask you the same thing, you know.”

“And I’ll tell you.” Lisa’s smile feels like cracks in a glass. “I’m here because I ran away from home.”

“Oh!” His icy eyes light up in remembrance. “From your dad, right?”

“How do you know that?”

“The l-last time we met…you mentioned him.” When he sees her blank face, he continues: “You were screaming about him so loudly, I thought you were getting m-murdered, so I came over and… you were just… th-thrashing around. I thought you were possessed or something.”

“I don’t remember that at all, but it sounds like something I would do.” Lisa hums. “That must explain why I don’t remember you, though, if you just watched.”

“I didn’t just watch.” His voice gains a note of confidence now. “I came over to help you, and you…you hit me!”

“Did I?” Lisa looks over him closely. His words don’t ring the faintest bell, but he looks serious, and he’s frowning at her with such intensity she believes him. “Well, I never hit anyone who doesn’t deserve it. What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” He cries out. “I just c-came over to see if you were okay, and you jumped up and p-popped me in the eye.”

“Well, I’m sorry about that, but I wouldn’t hit you without reason. You must have said something rude.”

He gasps, shocked at her audacity. Lisa leans over to snatch up the pan of beans. “Mind if I help myself?” He’s still staring, so she tips the pan over for a warm, gushy mouthful of beans. They’re plain and cheap, but she’s been so starving that her stomach gulps them down like ambrosia. It feels like heaven, and after her mouth’s full, she hands it to Dustin with a bloated-cheeked smile.

Dustin shakes his head in disbelief. “All I said was…I just asked if you were o-okay, and then you said the F-word, and we started talking about p-parents. Then, you said your dad is a monster—”

By now, Lisa had swallowed the last of her beans and licked her greasy lips. “Which he is. So, when did I hit you?”

Dustin fishes a spoon out of his pocket and takes small bites that look dainty compared to her ravenous guzzling. “All I said was, m-maybe he wasn’t that bad, and that’s when you screamed and smacked me so hard, I was a-afraid I’d get a black eye.”

“You shouldn’t have said that. It’s rude to tell other people what their lives are like.” Lisa frowns, but she feels a twinge of guilt for attacking the gentle giant — even though she can’t remember it. “I _am_ sorry, Dustin. I shouldn’t have hit you, but sometimes I get so mad I can’t help it.”

“Th-that’s not an excuse,” he says meekly. “You shouldn’t hit people over a misunderstanding. But…I accept your apology. Just… d-don’t do it again, okay?”

“Okay. I promise.” She holds out her pinky, and his large finger wraps around hers in agreement. Both of their nails are caked in days’ worth of dirt, but the unspoken signal shatters the veil of awkwardness. Dustin passes her the pan after a few bites, and this time she accepts the offered spoon so she’s not eating like a dog at a jar of peanut butter. They pass the pan back and forth until it’s empty, all to the creaking chorus of crickets.

It’s strange, but also peaceful, in a way. Dustin moves slowly, like a bear wading through honey, and his soft speech makes it hard to take him seriously. As weird and reeking as he is, though, Lisa feels a bud of fondness growing. It’s kind of nice to be around a friendly, non-threatening stranger. It makes her feel a little less alone, makes the woods less scary and insurmountable.

“Hey,” she says, “You never told me what you’re doing out here. Are you camping?”

“…Yeah.” He looks away. Clearly, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Why?” She insists.

Dustin takes a deep breath. “Sometimes, I just want to get away. F-for my own good.”

“I completely understand.” Lisa nods sagely. “You need to get out, right? Cause it’s better to be alone than in a bad situation.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” He relaxes. “B-but, it’s not that the orphanage is all bad. It’s just that…well, people can be mean, and…I’d like to stay — I’d rather be with other people than alone — but, I mean, I have to go when things get...overwhelming.”

A few feet away from the fire, there’s a ratty, red sleeping roll, as well as a battered backpack stuffed to the brim with supplies. It reminds Lisa of the bag she brought when she ran away from Grandpa’s house. Dustin looks like he’s done this a few times before, and he tells her he has. He lives on the other side of the woods, where there’s a huge, red-brick orphanage stuffed to the brim with kids who have nowhere else to go.

In his soft voice, he speaks of terrible things: kids attacking one another, overworked counselors, and countless abuses gone unpunished. Dustin’s been there so long, he can barely remember his parents’ faces. They were cops, he said: One died in the line of duty, and the other… Dustin doesn’t tell her exactly what happened, but she recognizes the long pause and pained look: It’s the same expression Grandpa has when he talks about grandma, the same look Dad has when he talks about mom. Intertwining tragedies connect them, and Lisa puts her hand on his. “I’m sorry,” she says, and he turns his wet eyes away.

“I-It’s not all bad,” Dustin says finally, sniffling. “I made some good friends, but they got adopted. And I stayed behind. Th-the older I get, the less likely I’ll ever leave.”

“But you’re gone now.” Lisa looks around the worn campsite. “You leave often, right?”

Dustin shrugs. “O-often enough…it’s not easy, b-but sometimes, when I’m alone, I can clear my head. It helps me be more grateful when… I’m taken back.”

“They really bring you back?” Lisa gasps. “Why can’t they just let you be?”

“Well, t-technically, they’re in charge of me...so they have to. B-but it’s not that bad,” he adds quickly. “They’re so busy, it always takes them a long time to notice I’m m-missing. One time I got so hungry I went back on my own.”

“Yeah.” Lisa drops her head onto her knees, hugging her legs close. “The hunger is the worst part. I think if I didn’t find you, I might have starved out here. The last time I ran away, I was so hungry I ate chocolate malt balls out of the trash.”

“Y’know, sometimes, if you’re l-lucky, people will give you food,” Dustin adds, brightening up. “I once met a man who took me out to lunch. W-we went to a diner, and he got me the biggest burger I’ve ever had. It had three patties!” He laughs at the memory, wiping his eyes. “A-and he even got me a big soda and fries. It was so fun. I kept thinking, ‘This is what it’s like to have a dad.’”

“What happened?”

“I told him everything,” Dustin says. “A-about the orphanage, my parents…he really seemed to care. He was so nice, I hoped he would a-adopt me. When we were done, he t-told me to keep my chin up. And I have — or I’ve tried to. But he left. For the longest time, I kept h-hoping he would come back. Whenever people came to the orphanage, I’d run up looking for him. But he never came.”

Lisa patted his huge back with her small hand. “I’m sorry. Have you ever gotten close? To being adopted, I mean.”

His long, ruddy face falls. “No. And, I asked them, I said, ‘I-I don’t need a big family. I’d be happy with a small one. I j-just want a mom, or a dad. Just a parent to look after me and — and to care.’ But they couldn’t f-find anybody who wanted me.”

Dustin wipes his wet nose, and Lisa tries to comfort him. “I know what you mean, wanting someone who wants you. I grew up with my Grandpa, and my mom died when I was young. Dad went to prison when I was almost two years old, but I always wanted to know him. Brad said he was mean, but how could I believe that? Maybe dad was mean to _him_ , but maybe he’d nice to me. I kept thinking, ‘Maybe he changed. It’s been eight years. People change all the time.’” She sighs. “All I could think of was, if I had a dad, I would have someone who cared about me, you know? Someone who _wanted_ me. Grandpa didn’t want me — he was stuck with me when dad went away. He didn’t want to raise us, but he had to. Brad was a good kid, so he liked him. But Grandpa never liked me.”

She has no clue why she’s saying these things, but Dustin’s tender gaze loosens her tongue. “So, when I heard my dad was out of prison, I begged to go see him. Everyone was telling me no, but I just didn’t get it! He was my dad — didn’t I deserve to see him? I was so angry, all I did was scream at Grandpa until he gave in.” Her voice fades away, suddenly tight, and she stops speaking.

Dustin looks at her closely. “But you got to see him. And then—”

“At then I found out I was an idiot who should have listened to them.” Lisa’s voice is sharp, like a knife on a chalkboard.

“Lisa, when you say your dad is a monster…what did he do to you?”

She looks at him: big, dopey, over-trusting, alone in the wild, and friendless. He’s no threat, and even if he flapped his mouth, who would he tell? No one in the orphanage talks to him, and he’s so desperate for company, he let _her_ — a dirty, ghostly girl who previously hit him — sit down and share his food. Maybe it’s the rush of nutrients after days of starving, or her own loneliness, but truth pours from her lips like an unstoppable current of bile. She purges her secrets, tells him everything, can’t stop once she starts. Dustin looks sick when she’s over; he sways like he’s about to faint.

“I…am so…sorry,” he whispers, and Lisa doesn’t answer him with any words except another stomach growl. Dustin glances at her, back at the empty pan, and then searches through his backpack. “W-want some chocolate?”

He holds the bar out to her, his light blue eyes wide with sympathy, and Lisa takes one look at the candy and bursts out laughing. It’s so loud it scares her, and it’s unlike any sound she’s made before. Hyena screeches rip her throat on their way out, and tears stream down her face. Lisa loses control of her body and falls into the dirt, laughing hysterically. After hearing her whole life’s story, all Dusty could do for comfort was offer a chocolate bar. It’s hilarious and terrible, and she wheezes until there’s dirt in her mouth. She knows he’s just trying to be nice, but it seems so silly and bizarre that two children would even be in this position — and that’s what they are, _children_ , even though they’re on the edge of adolescence, even though they’re both homeless and escaping troubles they’re far too young to deal with — she can’t help but laugh into the night.

Why the _hell_ did she tell him anything? Why couldn’t she keep her big mouth shut? Of course, this was too big a secret to share. How would a young kid even know how to respond, except to offer a chocolate bar? “I guess the snake sleeps when you’re around,” she whispers hoarsely, more to herself than to him. Although her body has quieted, emptied of all its laughter till she’s a twitching husk on the ground, her mind smiles at the strangeness of the situation. If she didn’t laugh, what would be the alternative?

“What does that mean?” Dustin is leaning over her, hand outstretched like he wants to help but is too afraid to touch her. His eyes are like two blue disks spinning in fear, and she thinks that if he weren’t a human, he’d probably be a hamster. She imagines him as a beefy rodent running on a wheel and smirks.

“Never mind.” She takes his outstretched hand and settles back on the log. Dustin’s eyes bore into her.

“Hey, um…Don’t take this the wrong way, b-but… are you, by any chance, on drugs?”

Lisa scoffs. “No.”

“…Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure! If I were high, I’m pretty sure I’d know it!”

“A-actually, you might not,” he says quietly. “I’ve heard drugs can change your m-mind…make you forget reality.”

Frustration needles Lisa’s brain. “Dustin. I’m not high. I’ve never even _seen_ a drug.”

“You’ve never taken p-pills?”

“No!”

“Not even for headaches?”

“Well, yeah, but those don’t count.”

“Technically, they do. Pharmacies are d-drug stores, you know?”

Lisa slaps her forehead. “I don’t mean _those_ types of drugs. I’m talking about the bad drugs, the illicit stuff you seem to think I’m on!”

“Oh. Right.” Dustin leans back, his light eyes darting from her face to the starry sky. “I believe you, b-but, just so you know…I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to e-escape reality.”

“I don’t!” She huffs and wipes some of the dirt from her matted, black hair. She feels like a disgusting animal. Maybe she is.

“No one would blame you,” Dustin goes on. “No one _could_ blame you. You should tell the p-police. They would put him in jail.”

Lisa shakes her head, hard. “I already left. I ran away, and I’m never going back. Unless my dad has a search party out for me, he’ll never see me again.”

“Y-you think he would have a search party out?” Dustin’s big, blue eyes trail around them, examining the shadowy trees beneath the blanket of stars. Above them, the moon is a glowing sickle.

Lisa shrugs. “I dunno,” she starts to say, but the words are engulfed by an enormous yawn.

“Y-you can stay here if you like,” Dustin says. “My sleeping bag is small, b-but we could take shifts. That way, we can sleep without w-worrying, since we’d be watching out for each other.”

“Really?” Lisa’s heart leaps at the opportunity to sleep on something soft, instead of hard dirt. She doesn’t give him a second to rescind the offer: she worms into the warm, thick sleeping bag, sighing in relief. Although it reeks of body odor, it feels comfier than a king’s bed, and she starts to feel the sandman pulling her eyes shut. “Thanks so much. Will you wake me up when it’s my turn to stand guard?”

“Y-yeah,” Dustin says. He watches as she settles in, nesting her hands against her head as a makeshift pillow. “Lisa, you should really tell someone about your dad.”

“I told you.” She frowns.

“I mean, someone who can help, like a t-teacher, or an adult, or—”

“Good night, Dustin.”

“Hey, wait!” Whatever he says is drowned out by the warm embrace of sleep.


	17. Lisa VI

Shades of pastel yellow and salmon pink paint the sky in beautiful strokes as the sun rises. Lisa cracks her eyes open and stares at the morning’s majesty, drinking in the crisp morning smells of grass and wet earth.

The only bad part is the heavy weight on her stomach. Dustin fell asleep in the middle of his shift, forgetting to wake her. His fluffy, blond head rests atop her sleeping bag, and he’s curled up towards the long-dead fire. When she wiggles away, he wakes up with a sheepish apology.

“That’s all right.” He looks so funny she can’t help but smile.

They decide to stick together, simply because both want company after their respective solitudes. Dustin also seems eager to share his knowledge, urging her to check out some of his favorite haunts. Despite Lisa’s reticence about going in public, Dustin tries to persuade her to go dumpster diving with him. She lets him believe his words have her convinced, but it’s really the ache in her stomach.

“We’ll go the long way a-around so people don’t see us,” Dustin says. He leads her through the woods in companionable silence until they reach a Wally’s Restaurant with a large dumpster in the back. Although the smell of garbage is overwhelmingly foul, Lisa finds an unfinished burger and slams it down her throat. The greasy meat and processed cheese feels heaven-sent. Dustin finds a large batch of fries that were thrown out the night before, and they eat until their stomachs are full, even though they have to pull out hairs and coffee grinds.

“Hey, look at this!” Lisa’s hands dig through a sticky, grey mess of garbage to fish out a big, green apron. It’s got an enormous coffee stain down the front, but there aren’t any holes and it doesn’t smell obscene, so she throws it out and pretends to flip patties. “Hi, welcome to Wally’s! How are you doing today, sir? Oh, that’s fantastic! May I take your order?”

“I-I wouldn’t wear that, if I were you,” Dustin says, hiding a smile. “It might make you stand out.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Lisa drops the apron atop a pile of emptied soda cans and crawls over a mountain of garbage. “Hey, do you know any places we can get clean? I want to wash off the garbage-stink.”

“W-well…there’s a gym I go to sometimes. One of the workers is r-really nice. She lets me use their showers sometimes.” Dustin looks doubtful. “But she might not be working there today.”

“Can we try, at least?”

Dustin nods and crawls over the side of the dumpster, when Lisa scrambles after him, she takes his hand as she jumps to the ground. “Thanks!”

They’re quiet as they walk towards the town, keeping their heads bent down. Lisa stays close to his side, trying to hide from anyone who might be looking their way. Fortunately, Dustin’s friend at the gym is working there, and she casts a sympathetic eye towards them when they come in. “M-my friend would like to shower too, i-if that’s okay.”

“Of course, sweetie.”

“Thank you so much.” Lisa bows, humbled by the help, and when she’s stripped off her dirt-stained clothes and stepped into the steamy shower, she feels like she could float. Everything’s perfect until she finds a woman staring at her in the locker room. “Can I help you?”

“You look a lot like the girl who’s missing,” the woman says, and Lisa flinches.

“Well, as you can tell, I’m not missing.” Lisa tries to keep her voice airy, but the woman’s eyes are hawk-like, so she dresses quickly and scuttles out to the front office. Dustin is thanking the woman at the counter for her water bottles when Lisa tugs at his shirt sleeve and whispers, “We gotta go.”

“Wh-why? Your hair isn’t even dry yet.”

“A woman spotted me. She’s gonna call my dad, I just know it!”

“Who sp-spotted you?”

“Someone in the locker room. She knows I’m missing!”

“Excuse me.” The woman at the front desk cuts in. “What’s this about missing? Have you run away from home?” Now she’s looking too closely at Lisa.

“No, not at all! _Come on, Dustin!”_

Reluctantly, he follows her out. Right when they’re about to step through the door, a man steps in front of them and says: “Hey, aren’t you that girl who was on the news this morning?”

Lisa doesn’t stand around; she sprints past him and out the gym door. Dustin’s big feet slap on the pavement behind her, but she doesn’t respond to his calls. She runs until the woods are in her sight, and then she leaps into their shadowy safety, where no one can find her or drag her back to dad, kicking and screaming.

“L-Lisa! There you are!” Dustin finds her clutching a tree, and his blue eyes cloud in worry. “I almost lost you. Why did you r-run?”

“Because I didn’t want them to take me back!” She yells, and he draws back. “I’m sorry. I’m just upset.”

Dustin nods, takes a step forward. “L-listen…maybe it’s not bad that they recognized you. They could p-probably help you.”

“Yeah, help me towards my death!” Lisa snaps. “They would just turn me in, and I’d get thrown back into the lion’s den. There’s no place for me out there, and you know it!”

Dustin shakes his head. “I know there are p-people out there who can help you, Lisa. You need to tell someone about your dad.”

She glares. “I’m not talking about this.”

“I’m serious!” Dustin insists. “If you f-file a police report, you can stop your dad.”

“Oh yeah?” Lisa’s arms fall from the rough bark, and she steps forward. Leaves crunch beneath her feet. “What if the police don’t trust me? What if they think I’m lying?”

“They won’t think you’re lying at all!” Dustin looks offended by the notion.

“How do you know?”

“B-because…” He shrinks under her angry gaze, fiddling with his rugged hands. “Cops are the g-good guys.”

Lisa scoffs. “There’s no such thing as ‘good guys.’ No one group can be all good. There’s always gonna be a few bad apples, and with my luck, I’d get a cop who thinks I either made it up for attention, or worse, that I wanted it.”

Dustin gasps. “H-how could anyone possibly think that you wanted _that_?”

“Dad always tells me I do.” Lisa kicks a rock and skulks away. Dustin’s heavy footsteps fall in line with her own. “He can’t be the only one in the world with that…mindset. He’s not that special. Maybe other people think that, too. Maybe I’ll have the misfortune of speaking to them.” She sighs. “Or, to be fair, maybe I won’t. But they might say I’m making it up to cause trouble. It’s not worth the risk. I’m not going to be humiliated!”

When Dustin shakes his head, damp blonde hair hits his long face. “I j-just don’t see how anyone could think you would ever m-make up something so serious. How could they think you’d l-l-lie?”

He struggles to speak, shock and revulsion making him pale with sympathy. Lisa smiles at him, but it’s bitter and doesn’t touch her eyes. “Dustin, I grew up with a man who thought I was a bad apple. He once told me I have a mean streak a mile long, and he was always getting on my case, calling me lying and manipulative. Listen, when it comes to me, people jump to the worst conclusion.”

“I didn’t!” Dustin says in earnest. “I believe you. A-and I’m sure others would, too!”

“Well, thanks,” Lisa sighs. “If there were more people like you and less like my Grandpa, the world would be a better place.”

Nervousness flashes across Dustin’s face. “Does your Grandpa _really_ blame you? That’s…that’s just sick.”

“He told me my dad can do whatever he wants to me.”

“Including… _that?_ H-h-he explicitly…s-supports _that?”_

Lisa frowns. “I told him my dad was hurting me. My grandpa told me to shut up and endure it.”

Dustin bites his lips. “S-s-so…he may not know what’s going on?”

“I think he does know,” Lisa says, but then she pauses. Most of her hatred for Grandpa stemmed from the assumption that he knew what was happening but cared so little for her that he sent her back, year after year.

Dustin picks up on her hesitation. “Y-you should tell him, just to be sure!”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Lisa snaps. “I just told you my Grandpa thinks I’m a bad person! I know him, and I know if I said anything, he’d throw it back in my face!”

“That’s not fair!” Dustin cries out, his voice rising, and Lisa’s rises to shout him out.

“ _Fair?_ You don’t know anything about fair! You know what’s unfair? Losing your mom and having a monster for a dad! I know more about what’s fair and not fair than you ever could!”

Hurt flashes across Dustin’s long face, but he stands his ground. “You’re wrong,” he says. “I’ve lived through my own un-unfairness. I-I don’t have anyone who cares about me, who could h-help me with my problems…they’re all gone… but you do, a-and you don’t even give him a chance!”

If Lisa sticks around, she’s going to smack him again. Red creeps at the edge of her vision, and she imagines his face speckled with violet bruises. But he’s her friend, and as much as she wants to hurt him, she won’t. Instead, she turns on her heel and stalks away towards an enormous tree. She throws her body weight into a high kick, slamming her shin against its rough bark. Her whole leg screams in pain, but she draws back and kicks it again. It hurts like hell, and she hisses in pain and falls to the dirt floor, gripping her throbbing shin.

Dustin watches from a few feet away, but he doesn’t dare approach until she roughly calls him over and asks for her help. Without speaking, he wraps her arm over his shoulders and helps guide her hobbling steps.

* * *

They’re discovered less than an hour later. Lisa could slap and berate herself for screaming so loudly they were found out, but she and Dustin don’t have time to do anything but run.

“She’s over here!” A voice calls in the distance.

Far behind her running feet, people are stumbling upon their campsite and rifling through their things. They both grabbed their backpacks at the first sign of people, but Dustin left his sleeping roll, and Lisa prays it won’t get taken. Anything would be better than sleeping on cold, hard dirt. Dustin helps her leave, but the voices get louder and louder.

“I think we’ll have to hide,” Lisa says, and as luck would have it, there’s a cluster of fallen branches she could slip behind. She’s so small, the bark would hide her, but there’s not enough room for Dustin.

“I-I can try to distract them,” Dustin offers.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” He looks nervous, but before she can say anything, he slips away into the brush, and the woods go silent.

Leaves frame Lisa’s vision as her tall friend hurries away. The colorful blur of flaxen hair and muddy clothes grows smaller and smaller until he’s no more than a blip in the distance. Although Lisa hears nothing but her own hummingbird heartbeat, she doesn’t dare move. Cracking branches or crunching leaves could give her away, so she waits, frozen, until her limbs hiss in agony.

It feels like an eternity before Dustin’s welcome figure emerges from the trees — alone. Lisa cries in relief, pushing branches out of her way to scramble over. “What happened?”

“I told them you and I were j-just camping,” he says. “It-it took a lot of convincing, but I managed to talk them down. They were j-just a few people who saw us at the gum. I think…p-policemen would have been more persistent.”

“You must have a silver tongue if you got them to leave.” The day’s anxiety and stress melts off her thin frame, leaving elation in its wake.

“G-geez. Nobody’s e-ever said that…about me.” Dustin scratches his neck and chuckles, a warm, happy sound. “Oh! By the way…y-you’re my sister now.” Lisa pulls away with a quizzical look, which he answers with a rueful smile. “I t-told them you were my sister so they w-wouldn’t get suspicious. Also, your name is Dana.”

“Why Dana?”

“B-because I couldn’t say you were Lisa. I tried to come up with a female version of ‘Dustin,’ and Dana w-was the only name I could think of.”

Lisa snorts. “Well, I’ll take it. Better than ‘Dustina,’ anyway.”

They laugh on their way back to their campsite, which was unmolested by the do-gooders. Although things ended well today, they may not be so lucky tomorrow, so they leave in search of a new place to set up shop.

As they speak, Lisa starts thinking of Brad. “Did I ever tell you about my brother?”

“N-no.” Dustin’s walking ahead of her now, but he turns to meet her eyes. “What’s he like?”

“He’s the coolest guy I’ve ever met.” Lisa smiles. “He took care of me when I was a baby, and he taught me karate. He always tried to defend me when Grandpa was being too hard on me. Sometimes, when I was sick, he’d sing me folk songs mom used to sing to him. I never met her, so he told me everything about her. He’s not a happy person, but he always smiled when he spoke about her.”

“She sounds very sweet,” Dustin says. “I’m sorry you never got to meet her.”

“Me too.” Lisa touches her pendant. “This was a gift from her, you know. She got it from her mom, who got it from her mom before her. It came from Italy, and her family brought it with them to America.”

“That’s amazing.” Dustin sighs, his long face forlorn. “I wish I knew stuff like that about my own family.”

Lisa hurries to his side. “Well, that’s the only thing I know. And I don’t know anything about the Armstrong side of the family, except that we made our own fighting style.”

His light blue eyes boggle. “R-really? That’s amazing!”

“That’s what everyone says.” Lisa smirks and flips her short hair. Truthfully, most people are unimpressed when she tells them about it — Bernard was the only person who responded with enthusiasm, but Dustin doesn’t need to know that. “Brad and my Grandpa taught me from the time I was little how to defend myself. Let me tell you: bad guys and bullies never see my moves coming.”

“Are you, l-like, a sort of peacekeeper, then?” Dustin lights up, and Lisa nods so she doesn’t disappoint him with the truth. She stops talking after that, looking down at the grass and the flowers they walk through, lost in thought about her family. It’s only when Dustin speaks that she lifts her head.

“Your brother…does he live with your dad, too?”

“No, my Grandpa. CPS took us away when we were both very little…he was around my age, and I was just a toddler. Almost two years old, I think. I was sent to live with my dad…after I ran away the first time.” She wrinkles her nose, not wanting to think about all the anguish and rage she felt at the time. It’s still there, albeit duller from time.

Twenty feet away from a babbling brook, there’s a small meadow in the heart of a tall tree cluster. A monarch butterfly floats through the lush clearing, which Lisa takes as a good sign. It reminds her of the butterfly stickers in her room at Grandpa’s house. Wings of every color of the rainbow spread against her pale, pink walls. On nights when sleep was elusive, she would follow their graceful arc with her eyes, imagining which colors she’d blend to recreate their delicate bodies on canvas.

Thinking about home makes it harder for Lisa to cope with the coldness of the current night. Instead, she looks around the clearing while Dustin sleeps. While Lisa wishes there was a comfortable pattern she could rest her gaze on, but the world offers nothing except a dark, silent nothingness. As her eyelids grow heavy and hunger gnaws at her insides, Lisa prods the fire and feeds it new twigs, watching the gorgeous colors battle against the world’s overwhelming darkness. The fire throws dancing lights over Dustin’s face, and Lisa wonders why his dreams put a smile on his face. She’s not sure how much time has passed, but when she almost falls over out of sleepiness, she figures it’s time to nudge her friend awake. Dustin just groans and turns over. It’s only when she grips him with both hands and shakes him with all her might that his blue eyes finally open and he yawns deeply. “Wh-wh-why’d you wake me?”

“Good morning, sunshine. My shift has ended, and now it’s your turn to stand guard!”

Dusty groans in agony as he leaves the sleeping roll’s warmth, while Lisa wiggles in and smiles in her warm new cocoon. “Y-you could have given me a little bit longer to sleep, you know,” Dustin grumbles.

Lisa tries to apologize, but she falls asleep before the words can travel from her mind to the air. For the first time in forever, she sleeps peacefully, and she wakes in the early morning to the feeling of Dustin’s head atop her belly. Once again, he fell asleep on guard duty and curled up to her instead of keeping an eye out.

Lisa would be annoyed if it weren’t so sweet. It reminds her of the way Brad used to crawl into bed with her when she was very young, holding her tight so she wouldn’t have nightmares. She misses Brad so much it hurts, but the more time she spends with Dustin, the less her heart twists with longing.


	18. Lisa VII

Lisa’s hunger is so great she wakes with a line of drool down her chin. On one hand, she’s terrified of venturing out and being captured, but on the other hand, she’s ravenous enough to take the risk.

“M-maybe you could try on my jacket?” Dustin suggests. “If you pull the f-f-fur hood over your head, it could hide you pretty well. And it’s still w-winter, so it’s not like you’d stick out…”

“I’ll try it.” While Dustin’s jacket was large on his tall, thick frame, it turns into an enormous cloud when Lisa wears it. The red, puffy jacket is so huge she swims in its stinky fabric, but it keeps her toasty in the chill, morning air, so she’s cheerful when she and Dustin head over to the food bank.

She’s never been there before, but it’s a Sunday, so there are lots of volunteers out. They pick up a modest amount of food and hygiene products, and all the while Lisa keeps her head down, bowing so people aren’t suspicious. Instead, they interpret her behavior as humble and apologetic, and one of the volunteers gently tells her there’s nothing to be ashamed of and that she’s welcome any time. “Thank you,” Lisa whispers to the ground, not meeting the person’s eyes but hoping they can tell how touched she is.

After that, Dustin leads her to a nearby church. It’s a big, white building with long, thin windows and a large golden cross that looks grand against the clouds, but it reminds Lisa of the crosses in her dad’s house, so she doesn’t look too long. Her mother and grandmother were both deeply religious, according to what she’s heard, so she wonders if either one of them ever stepped into this church. She hopes so; knowing she’s somewhere they’ve walked through makes her feel less afraid of the golden cross in the sky.

“O-on Sunday, some of the v-volunteers here will offer some free stuff,” Dustin tells her. “They’re always really nice. Once they even i-invited me into service. It was warm, b-but…really loud.”

Through the windows, rows of people are standing and holding their hands to the sky as a band on stage plays music. Lisa can’t hear the words from outside, but she can hear the faint tendrils of sound through the windows. Even though they don’t attend service, volunteers share doughnuts and hot chocolate with them, and in Lisa’s ravenous mouth, the food lasts as long as a snowflake in the sun. “I wish I knew you when I ran away the first time,” Lisa says. “I could have used this stuff when I was 100 miles away.”

“Were you really…that f-f-far away?” Dustin’s light blue eyes go wide. “I’ve never even been outside this city…”

Lisa lights up; here’s her chance to shine with her knowledge. “Of course I was! I traveled all throughout Olathe, sleeping in parks, and scouting out all the coolest libraries.”

His forehead wrinkles. “Why libraries?”

“Because they’re the best place to kill time. Nobody bothers you there, and you can read all day for free. It’s really fun.” Unfortunately, from her previous three summers in this town, she knows there’s no library nearby. They’d have to take the bus to the next town over. Suddenly emboldened, Lisa asks one of the nearby volunteers for a few dollars. “We’d like to go to the next town over to see the library!” The man, who doesn’t seem to recognize her as a missing girl, coos over how nice it is to see young kids spending their time reading instead of fooling around on the streets. Five dollars disappear into Lisa’s pocket, and she thanks him as sweetly as she can.

“A-are you sure?” Dustin stammers as they approach Lisa’s old bus stop. “I-I’ve never even been on a bus before…”

“Then it’s good you’ve got me with you for your first time.” Lisa beams at him. “Don’t worry; we’ll only be there for an hour or so. I just want to show you how cool it can be. There are books of every genre, and the one in the next town even has a big aquarium and a small theatre that puts on plays for the really little kids.” She babbles on as they walk, and when they step on the bus, Lisa’s sure to cover her face with Dustin’s coat. Despite his nervousness — which he expresses by gripping her arm, as if her tiny body could possibly protect him — Dustin seems interested, and he perks up when they reach the next town over.

This is a library she’s been to a few times before. It’s a big building, tall and grey with three stories, every inch stacked with enormous books. There’s a lush park behind the library and a gushing water fountain that makes Dustin’s eyes pop. “A w-w-wishing well!” He exclaims, and although he's completely wrong, Lisa bites her tongue and lets him be happy. “If only I had a c-coin.”

“What would you wish for?” Lisa asks.

He pauses and peers up at the sky. “A family.”

She had been expecting him to say something more light-hearted, but his intensity is startling. When he gets a faraway look in his eyes, she gently tugs him towards the sliding glass doors to bring him down to Earth. However, he’s much stronger than her, and when he resists, she can’t make him budge an inch further. “Dustin…?”

“Th-the last time I made a wish in a fountain, I w-was with my mom.” His gaze is glued to the deep blue water in the well, lost to a distant memory. “That was after…my dad died. A bad guy shot him.” He sniffles. “She s-said, if we made wishes in the fountain, maybe we’d w-wake up and it would all be a dream. But it wasn’t. It was real…”

Lisa hopes he doesn’t cry and attract attention. “Dustin, I’m here,” she whispers, patting his back. She struggles to say the right words to calm him down. “You’re here. You’re okay.” He starts crying anyway, and she starts sweating with nervousness; there are eyes on them. “Dustin…I…you _do_ have a family.”

His wide, wet eyes are full of confusion. “N-n-no I don’t.”

“You have me!” Lisa gestures at herself. “I’m here with you.” Dustin blinks rapidly; a few tears fly from his face towards her. “Didn’t you tell those people I was your sister? Well, I — I _want_ to be your sister!” Her cheeks heat up when she realizes she’s speaking the truth. “Isn’t family all about standing by one another? We’re standing by each other, aren’t we?”

Realization dawns in his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispers, his voice hoarse from self-restraint. Lisa can tell he’s trying hard not to cry loudly, so she leans over and rubs circles in his back. She almost wants to hug him, but she’s not sure if that would be crossing a line. With Bernard, she could tell he wanted a hug and would be happy with one, but Dustin’s harder to read. He’s quiet for a long moment before taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Wh-why don’t you go on ahead?” He rasps. “I…I need to relax.”

She’d love nothing more than to bolt away from the emotional display, but she wants to make sure she’s being as supportive as possible. “Are you sure?”

He nods, and she heads inside. _I hope I said the right thing,_ she thinks. Never before has she had to worry about supporting a friend, but that’s because she’s never had any close friends before. Although she’s only known Dustin for a few days, she feels like she’s known him far longer than that. _Maybe surviving together in the wilderness is a quick way to get close to someone,_ she thinks, smiling sardonically. _Who knows? Maybe if I drag Grandpa out for a camping trip, we’ll magically bond and he’ll pull the stick out of his ass._

Usually, Lisa goes to the kids’ section first, but today it’s packed with running toddlers and harried parents, and after soothing Dusty, she wants a quieter place, where she can be alone with her thoughts. She wanders over to the fiction section, searching for an eye-catching cover. A few books seem interesting, but they’re either too boring or stuffed with ten-dollar words to catch her attention.

A mustard yellow book of poetry is wedged in-between two dry-looking novels, and Lisa grabs it out of curiosity. Someone must have put it there out of laziness, since it's obviously in the wrong section. She flips it open and looks through; many of the poems are strange yet interesting, but none impress her until she comes across a poem called "Lady Lazarus." Although she doesn't fully understand it, she senses something dark and painful being expressed. The very last stanza jumps out of the page and settles in her brain:

_Out of the ash_

_I rise with my red hair_

_And I eat men like air._

The mental image consumes Lisa’s mind. She imagines her greasy, black hair exploding into flames as she rises into the sky, devouring her dad, Grandpa, the school psychologist, the evil man who tried to kidnap her on Valentine’s Day…

“Lisa?”

Dustin’s long face stares at her through the bookcase, and she jumps in surprise, dropping the book. He chuckles softly and apologizes, and she huffs and acts like it never happened. Instead of talking about what happened outside, they spend the next hour wandering around the library together. For a while, they’re two normal kids, reading graphic novels and laughing over terrible summaries on the back of the books they find. They walk through the park afterwards, chatting about light-hearted things and enjoying themselves.

When they come across a large pond, Lisa runs forward towards a flock of birds, feeling powerful and free as they fly away from her red boots. She laughs as they take to the sky, but Dustin frowns. “Wh-why’d you do that?”

“It was fun,” she says, but he shakes his head.

“Th-that isn’t nice,” he says, and Lisa rolls her eyes. Above them, the morning sky has rolled into the early afternoon. Since the day has slipped away so quickly, they decide to head back before it gets dark. As they retrace the dust paths, Lisa wonders how someone who spends so much time living alone could be so gentle. Dustin’s tall, thick frame would make him seem intimidating to anyone who doesn’t know his personality, but in truth, he’s so sensitive he got choked up over a flock of birds—and Lisa’s declaration of herself as his family.

She watches him closely out of the corner of his eye. What did he think of her words? Did he take them seriously—or did he assume the worst and take her words for lies? She’s so focused that she barely notices heavy footsteps behind her until she’s pushed forward and slammed into the dirt. Sharp knees grind into her back as she realizes a laughing boy is hitting her in the head. It’s a sneak attack that immediately infuriates her, both because it was completely unwarranted, and also because his cowardice is pathetic. With a roaring scream, she writhes beneath his heavy weight, twisting into the dirt to dislodge him. The boy just laughs at that, grabbing a fistful of her hair and rubbing her face into the dirt.

Beside her, Dusty shouts as footsteps crowd around him. Lisa hears the smack of hands against skin and realizes he’s being assaulted by two boys. Finally, her beastly writhing throws off the boy’s balance, so she jumps to her feet and lunges towards him like a cobra. With a loud scream, she digs her nails as deep as she can into his chubby cheeks and drags them down, drawing rivulets of crimson blood down his face. They wrestle in the ground in pointless violence: the boy swings his fists every which way, slamming new bruises into every inch of skin he can reach, but Lisa jumps to her feet again and throws hard kicks into his stomach and head. When he throws his forearms over his head, she slams him in the crotch and stomach until he’s howling in pain.

There’s a sharpness in her skull: Another boy has yanked her hood back and has a fistful of her hair, but she twists her body — ignoring her hair being ripped away — and tackles him. As he’s falling, she throws a lighting-quick fist straight into his face. Before he or the other boy can catch their bearings, she runs around them and darts down the dirt path, shouting over her shoulder: “Dusty! Come on!”

Behind her, Dustin is crouched on the ground, covering his head as the third boy assails him with kicks and punches. Instead of fighting back, he’s taking it, like he’s frozen. Like he's a stupid statue instead of a flesh-and-blood human being. Lisa sees red. She screams at the top of her lungs and runs back as fast as she can, grabbing the back of his jacket and jerking him away. Forearms dart beneath her armpits and throw her arms up, exposing her torso to a barrage of punches from the other two boys. “Dustin! Help me!” She screams. He watches her, motionless, until the boy who’d been beating him slams a fist straight into her eye socket, and she _howls._

“H-hey, stop it!” He jumps up, pulling the boy back. The boy twists around to punch Dustin, but Lisa’s friend grabs the fist and looks apologetic. “P-p-please, leave us alone!”

The third boy throws a kick into Dustin’s side, and he crumples. Lisa screams like she’s a boiling lobster, and this time, Dustin doesn’t stay down; he comes up again, blocking as many blows as he can, and then throws a quick, decisive punch into one of the boys’ throats. He punches the other boy as well before kicking them down. His movements are fast and fluid as a burst of wind; the strong, decisive blows send the boys crumbling. The whole time he takes them down, his long face is twisted in nervousness, and he whispers apologies.

The hands entrapping Lisa finally loosen, and one of the boys yells for a retreat. Lisa kicks him in the tailbone as hard as she can, and he yelps. One of the boys jumps up from the ground and leaves, but the other is slower: that one gets a furious fist to the head before he escapes.

“Fuck you!” Lisa yells after them, her voice loud enough to reach the furthest edge of the park. “Fuck you evil bastards!”

“L-Lisa! Calm down!” Dustin’s face is swollen and purple with bruises. He looks like hell, but she must look even worse, because his expression goes taut with fear when he sees her.

"How can I calm down?” She screams. “They attacked us _for no reason!_ We didn’t do anything to them and they _beat us!_ They hurt us just for fun! They’re scum!”

“Lisa!” Now he looks even more afraid. _Good,_ Lisa thinks. _Fuck his pitying eyes._ But he continues: “L-listen! That…that happens sometimes. P-people just wanna prove they’re strong, so they-they attack the b-biggest guy they can find. It’s all my fault. I’m s-so sorry you were with me, and you got hurt because of me.”

“It’s not your fault!” Lisa snaps, but Dustin stands back, shaking his head. His blue eyes are watery again, and Lisa’s heart burns with anger: she wishes those cowardly bastards didn’t run away, because she wants to beat them bloody for hurting her friend’s feelings. “Dusty, listen, _it’s not your fault._ ” She steps closer and grabs his cheeks, forcing him to look at her. “I don’t blame you and you shouldn’t blame yourself either. It’s all on them, do you understand?”

He nods, but his eyes flicker away. Red burns at the edge of Lisa’s vision. “Why the hell did you just _let them hit you?_ ” She demands. “You — you were just sitting there, letting yourself get hurt! Why did you do that?”

“I-I didn’t want to hurt them.”

Lisa wants to slap her forehead. “They deserved it! They hurt you first!”

“They didn’t deserve it.” Dustin’s wringing his hands, now. He steps back, afraid of her anger. “They-they’re probably h-hurting inside, which is why they attacked us. H-h-hurt people hurt people…no one deserves to be hurt.”

“Oh, really?” Poison drips from Lisa’s voice. “So my dad doesn’t deserve to be hurt? Even though he’s constantly hurting me?”

Dustin’s eyes go wide. “I-I…Lisa…”

She steps forward, pointing her aching finger in his face. “Well?” When he says nothing, she yells in his face: “Answer me!”

Dustin’s hands fly to his face, and for a sobering moment, Lisa’s afraid she’s made him cry. Her anger turns to guilt, but when Dustin lowers his hands, his face is dry. “I-I think your father needs to be turned in. He d-d-deserves to go to prison.”

Lisa scoffs. “He’s been to prison before. He got out early for good behavior.” She shakes her head, but the movement sends a jolt of pain through her skull. “Prison’s too good for him, no matter how much he cries about how bad it was. He deserves a slow and painful death.”

“H-he needs to be reported to the cops.” Dustin can’t meet her eyes.

Lisa takes a deep breath. She’s so angry she could pound sand, but at the same time, she’s conscious of how much her rage is unnerving Dustin. There’s nothing she wants to do more than chase down the worthless pieces of shit who ambushed them, but Dustin is more important than revenge. She grabs his large, pale hands in her own and stares at him until he meets her eyes. Dustin swallows hard and looks at her, blinking tears from eyes. “Come on, Dusty,” Lisa says. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

It feels like forever before they’re back at their camp. It’s too early for the sleeping roll, but there’s no place to sleep beside the grass, so Lisa throws her aching body against the soft green expanse. Dustin steps through the thicket, hauling a huge hunk of wood she couldn’t move an inch. “Y-you can sit here if you like.” He arranges the log for her to sit on, and she’s shocked that he’s not flinching in pain. Hurt ripples through her own bruised flesh when she hits down on the rough rear. Still, though, it’s nice to rest her legs after a long day.

To Dustin, though, the day’s far from over. “We’re…going to n-need some food for tonight. I know where I can g-get some cans.”

“But…we just got some cans of food earlier today,” Lisa says.

Blue eyes dart away from her. “We-we, um, we’ll need some more for t-tomorrow,” he says with a cracking voice.

“Okay…?”

He rises to leave, but when Lisa moves to follow, he holds a hand out to stop her. “I-I think it might be best if you stayed back…after what happened earlier.”

As much as she wants to stay by his side, he’s got a point. Everything aches from the earlier beatdown, so she wouldn’t be able to escape if someone spotted her. “I get it, but what if someone finds me out here?”

“They sh-shouldn’t…but maybe you can find a hiding spot?”

“And hide there the whole time?” Lisa blinks. “How long will you be gone?”

Dustin can’t meet her eyes. “I-I-I’m not sure.”

“Do you have any weapons?”

He looks shocked. “Why do you ask?”

“In case I have to defend myself.” She follows his distressed gaze, which is glued to his ratted red backpack. “Is it in there?”

“You sh-shouldn’t feel unsafe at all!” Dustin cries. “We m-moved over here. We’re well out of the way.”

“I know…but what if?” She widens her turquoise eyes in a show of fear. “We just got jumped earlier today. What if someone else comes here? I'm all busted up. I won't be able to defend myself."

“W-well…I guess you could use my knife…but _not_ to hurt anybody! I won’t l-let you use it on anyone, okay? Just…hold it while I’m gone if it m-makes you feel safe.”

“Thank you, Dusty.” She means it; the words are as real as the knife in her palm. Despite the unease that radiates from every fiber of Dustin’s being, he nods.

It’s quiet when he’s gone. Only the trees keep her company, and they’re immobile and silent, save for the rare caress of wind that sends green leaves fluttering down to earth. Lisa flicks open the knife, admiring the sharp blade that gleams from the sun. _Why did I even ask for this?_ She wonders. _Will a cheesy little pocket knife really keep me safe?_

She can't understand why those boys attacked them. Dustin says it was to prove they were strong by beating up on the biggest guy they saw—but then, why did they hurt her, too? Wouldn't the type of chauvinistic assholes who want to prove themselves avoid hurting a girl? If they wanted to prove they could take down the biggest guy they saw, why beat up the girl with him?

The random violence is unnerving. When dad hurt her, he always had a reason to. He was angry with her; he wanted something from her. What did those boys want? Why _her?_

 _Am I just a magnet for bad people?_ Lisa turns the knife in her hand and her wrists tingle. _Can people just sense that they can hurt me? If that's true... and Dustin's with me... are they going to hurt him, too?_

She shakes her head roughly, trying to dislodge the feelings of self-hatred. With a deep sigh, she leans back in her seat, which exposes the pendant around her neck to a bold ray of sunshine. It glimmers like a diamond beneath the light, throwing bright beams into her achy eyes. Wincing, Lisa lifts the black cord from her neck, holding her mother’s pendant in tiny hands.

Her mind returns to that horrifying daydream of her mother with Marty’s face. It made her sick, thinking of how much her father had taken away. Her mother deserved to be remembered for who she was as a person, but all Lisa knows about her is that she cherished this trinket from another country. Lisa can't recall a single curve of her mother's face, but she would crack open her own skull if it meant she’d find a memory of her mother amidst the splattered brains.

But that was impossible. Emily Armstrong’s face had been scrubbed away, and in its place, an ugly scribble of a monster emerged. Suddenly, Lisa can’t bear to face the pendant; it makes her think of graves and misery and an empty bottle of pills. She shoves it into her pocket—only to draw back a bloody hand.

Lisa’s razors are still with her. Somehow, she had forgotten their presence. Now, they look misplaced in her hands, a shadow of a threat. Yesterday, she would have used them in a heartbeat; now, she isn’t so sure.

Across the creek where Lisa washes her fingers, a rabbit hops over lush grass. Blood drifts down the lazy current as the little animal sips crisp water. If it were closer, Lisa could take Dustin’s knife and carve it into rabbit strew. Maybe it’s for the best that its soft, brown body scampers away: Dustin surely would sob at the sight of a butchered bunny. The last thing Lisa wants is to make him cry. She likes him—which means she’s now afraid to lose him.

Nightfall wraps the world in obsidian robes by the time Dustin returns. His huge shadow overtakes the light from Lisa’s humble fire, which she’d lit with a match from his backpack. “Where were you?”

Dustin won’t return her smile. He sits down wearily, like a man thrice his age. Worry is carved into his long features. “What’s wrong?” Lisa asks, but he shakes his head. “Obviously, something happened.”

“I’m fine, all right?” It’s the closest he’s ever come to snapping, so Lisa lets it go. She’s got something better to talk about.

“I have a present for you.” Dustin's sad gaze flickers up to meet her impish grin. “Since we’re brother and sister now, I wanted to make it official.”

“H-how?”

Lisa stands before him with both hands behind her back. “If you wear an important family heirloom, you join that family in spirit.” She holds out her mother’s pendant. “I want you to have this, so you know how serious I am.”

“Lisa…” Dustin’s voice breaks with emotion, and his ice-blue eyes brim with unshed tears. “You can’t p-p-possibly…”

“Kneel,” Lisa says. “I want to knight you like I’m the Queen of England.”

She grins when he shuffles into position. A light, thin branch taps him on both shoulders, and pride bursts from every pore upon Dustin’s long, smiling face. The golden pendant glimmers in the flickering firelight as Lisa places it around Dustin’s neck. “I hereby declare you an honorary member of my family. Rise, Dustin Armstrong!”

Dustin envelops her in the tightest hug she’s ever known. It’s warm, safe, and sincere; she hugs him back in the strongest hold she can muster. He babbles about how he doesn’t deserve it, and she tells him that’s bullshit. They embrace for a long time, lost in the pure, beautiful feeling of forging their own family. Dustin and Lisa Armstrong. Brother and sister. _It sounds good to me,_ Lisa thinks, smiling into his tear-stained hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a few pieces of trivia for this chapter! 
> 
> 1\. The poem Lisa read here is called "Lady Lazarus." It's by Sylvia Plath, and you can read it [ here](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49000/lady-lazarus). Kind of fitting for her, isn't it? 
> 
> 2\. When I wrote that last scene, I imagined it looking like "The Accolade" by Edmund Leighton:
> 
> Of course, it didn't look nearly as grand--Lisa used a tree branch instead of a sword, and they're in the middle of the woods instead of a fancy throne room. Still, I loved the imagery of two kids reenacting this grand scene. It highlights their innocence, I think.
> 
> 3\. Also, this chapter inspired some truly sweet and adorable fanart by [dropadragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dropadragon/pseuds/dropadragon)! I'm so happy they gave me permission to post it here, because I'm honored my story could inspire some art! 
> 
> If you want to see more of their artwork, check out their [tumblr](https://brokentoothmarch.tumblr.com/) or [DeviantArt](https://www.deviantart.com/dropadragon)! 😊
> 
> Thanks for following the story so far. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! :)


	19. Lisa VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy oh boy, is this a doozy of a chapter. It's one of the chapters I hold closest to my heart, actually. I sincerely hope you enjoy it!

He’s gone the next morning.

She wakes up to a crowd of police officers who want to take her home. As they swarm around with radio voices and endless questions, something inside Lisa breaks.

She’s back inside Marty’s house, trapped in that tiny, filthy room. Her long, greasy hair hangs down her back like a butchered pelt. Everything’s disgusting: the sheets, the walls, herself. _I’ve got to get out of here._

The hallways are lined with gaudy crosses, piss-yellow and so large they devour every inch of wall space. Hundreds of crosses hang over the never-ending corridor; it feels like Lisa’s walked for miles when she reaches the cacophonous cave where Marty lurks. He’s sheathed in darkness; the only light comes from the TV, which throws forth waves of demonic cackles that flatten Lisa to the sticky wall. She peels away and tiptoes towards the door that seems as far away as stars. Every step is slow, like she’s wading through muck, but the doorknob is heaven on her fingertips, and she doesn’t run, she _flees_ out the door, escaping the house of horrors.

A policeman without a face stands before her. “Did your father ever touch you in a way that made you feel uncomfortable?” Lisa hurries past him, but another policeman steps in her way. “We’ll have to conduct a physical exam.” Ghostly hands slither over her flesh, but Lisa slaps them away and breaks free.

No matter how far she runs, though, there’s another shadow in a police uniform waiting for her.

“Don’t be afraid.”

“Your friend told us everything.”

“Can you say this to a judge, as well?”

“Is it true that your father gave you these bruises?”

“You don’t have to protect your father.”

“It’s illegal to lie in a courtroom.”

Their words rush over her like a wave of knives. Lisa flees into an enormous world of white. It looks like the land’s enveloped in snow, but she feels white grass beneath her toes. Dad stands beside a crystal-clear lake, dressed in his Sunday best. He doesn’t stir when she approaches, only turns warm and loving eyes on her.

“Lisa, baby. It’s a good day for a tea party.” She doesn’t respond. “Thanks for coming to see me. The whole time I was in prison, I thought about my baby girl growing up without her daddy. My little Lisa, named for my poor, dead ma… I wondered what you were like, what kind of girl you were becoming. Then I looked into your eyes, and it was the greatest feeling in the world…”

Lisa steps back; there are two statues between her, shaped like a man and a woman, and when she moves between them, Dad shifts before her eyes. He transforms into a vile, bloated beast, leaking sweat and pus over the blood-soaked ground. Vomit stains his tattered clothes, and he roars after her running feet.

Time flits away like a butterfly, and Lisa goes numb to the world. She doesn’t know where she is half the time, and she doesn’t care to answer any more questions. For a long time, she’s silent, refusing to speak to anybody. She just wants to be still and safe.

Lisa is hugging her knees to her chest when something soft brushes against her ankle. It's a teddy bear. Without thinking, she takes the bear and smothers it against her chest. Its brown fur is a welcome comfort, and Lisa hopes it she doesn't taint its sweetness with the inherent filth that lurks within her. Every speck of beauty that comes into her life is corrupted: her clothes, her pendant, her friends... where is Dustin? Where is Bernard? They're long gone to her; only the feelings of ugliness and worthlessness remain. 

She holds that bear for what feels like an eternity. She doesn't know why; it just feels good. But then she remembers the last time she held something that made her feel so warm and pure. She remembers the dream she had, of finding her mother in the woods. When Emily Armstrong turned around, she had His face...

Now, the idea seizes Lisa's heart. What if this is just another dream? She holds out the bear so she can see it more clearly. _P_ _lease don’t have His face,_ she thinks, and for once, her prayers were answered. The bear’s dark, marble eyes look sweet above a little nose and smiling mouth. It has a black bandana and a shirt that reads “Bikers Against Child Abuse.”

“I’m glad you like it,” a stranger says. He looks like he hopped right off a Harley-Davidson, with boots, chains, and a black leather vest emblazoned with patches, including a fiery skull and a knife. “That’s a gift from me and the guys.”

Lisa looks past the man, but they’re alone together. _The guys?_ “I don’t see anyone else.” Her voice croaks from disuse.

“They’re outside. Want to meet them?”

Sunlight warms her face as she steps onto Grandpa’s front lawn. _How did I get here?_ Before she can fall to her thoughts, she takes in the startling image before her: A gang of bikers with hardened looks lean against gleaming black motorcycles. Some have sunglasses and bandanas, and others have sprawling tattoos, but all dress like the man beside her, who looks down at Lisa with a warm smile. “Welcome to the family,” he says. “We’re all happy to meet you.”

Lisa frowns. “Why are you here?”

“We want to help you.” The man crouches down to look her in the eyes, but Lisa flicks her gaze away, focusing instead on the long, sky-blue hair flipped over his shoulder. “If you want, we’ll go with you when you testify in court. We'll stand in a protective barrier to keep your dad away. Trust me: With us around, there's no way he’ll be able to come close to you.”

“You can do that?” She looks at each person standing nearby; they look strong and grizzled from long hours on the road, but everyone has a welcoming expression. They look at her like a friend they want to hang out with. Lisa imagines these tough, burly bikers shielding her as she stands before the podium and speaks about terrible things she’s hidden for years out of shame and fear. The mere thought is so impossible she’s convinced it’s all a dream. Maybe she’ll wake up in Dustin’s bedroll to early morning birdsong and his head nestled on her stomach.

Then the bikers pass around her teddy bear, holding it close to their leather-clad hearts. The man with long, blue hair tells her, “This bear is full of hugs now. If you ever feel scared or lonely, pick up your bear and take a hug out of it.”

Lisa weeps.

Strong arms and soothing words surround her, and the men and women who have come to visit her stay with her until she finally calms down. They don’t seem to care about how silly or pathetic she looks, and they close by until she can speak again. A blur of names she won't remember wash over her, but for the first time in months, she feels hope once again. _I hope they come by again,_ she thinks when they leave, waving before they swing their strong legs over their motorcycle and zoom away.

For a short while after that, she thinks it's a dream, but the familiar teddy bear on her bed tells a different story. Soon they visit again, and she's so happy she could almost cry. This time she remembers their names when they introduce themselves again, and when she begs them not to run away as Dustin did, they assure her that they'll visit again. At first, she wonders if they're lying, but they're true to their words: again and again they visit her, and eventually she's allowed to ride on a motorcycle with them. With the wind rushing through her hair, zooming down the roads, she feels _free_ for the first time in forever.

During one visit, the bikers give her a vest as part of a fun entrance ceremony. “Now that you’re part of the family, you can have your own personal name to identify as,” her new friend says. Everyone in the group has a cool title that’s different than their day-to-day name. The blue-haired man is Dice Mahone, and some of his friends have alter egos like Rex Thunderstorm or Blade Londa.

"It can be anything you want," says one of the women in the group, a tall, thick woman who named herself Lady Tank. She's a beacon of strength and unwavering support, and Lisa finds herself wishing she could have that kind of confidence when she grows up. "Whatever your road name is, it should define who you are. You can be 'princess' or 'ninja' or even 'dragon.' One of our kids calls himself Batman!"

Thinking about something fun like a road name is a welcome change from the fear that plagues Lisa's mind on a daily basis, so she thinks long and hard about what she wants to be called. Having these strong, powerful people in her corner makes her feel safe, and she wants a name that's worthy of their company. Nothing feels right until she recalls a poem she once read in a library. She hadn’t understood it at the time, but she remembers the last stanza clearly: _I_ _rise with my red hair, and I eat men like air._

“I want to be called ‘Lady Lazarus,’” she says, after the poem’s title. Her new family cheers for Lady Lazarus, and she carries the strength they give her all the way to court. It keeps her from collapsing when she's called to the podium to deliver her testimony.

It feels like a thousand eyes are staring, judging her. _They think I'm a bitch, a whore, an attention-seeking waste of space,_ she thinks, but then she looks to her side and sees Dice Mahone standing to her left. To her right stands Lady Tank, who gives Lisa a kind smile before glaring towards the rest of the court, looking for all the world like a mama bear ready to fight off a hunter. Lisa feels the presence of the rest of the gang around her like a blanket; Dice Mahone's fearsome friends are all here for _her._ They've deemed her as a friend, as someone worth protecting. She's not just Lisa Armstrong: she's Lady Lazarus, and although she can't fight her tears, she steps forward. It's the hardest thing she's ever done, especially because she's in the same room with her father. She's terrified, but she knows her friends will protect her. Marty would have to fight through a group of strong, burly bikers to get to her, and he’s too much of a coward to ever hurt someone who could fight back.

Lisa almost breaks as she delivers her testimony, talking about degrading and horrible things that happened to her. She doesn’t look at anyone in the court; she stares at the corner of the room instead, standing as tall as she can. Dad’s looking at her—she can _feel_ it—but she refuses to meet his eyes, because then she would collapse. By the time she's done, both her legs and her voice shake uncontrollably. For a long moment, the courtroom is quiet.

Then dad shatters the silence. “Lisa, baby, stop lying!” Now she can’t stop herself from jerking her head towards him: He’s wearing that suit he always wears when he wants to hide his evil, and Lisa nearly drowns in the tidal wave of hatred that washes over her. “Do the right thing," he cries. "Tell them the truth! I can’t go back to prison. Please, Lisa—!”

 _Fuck you,_ Lisa thinks. Her face twists into a dark expression of hatred and disgust. “You’re pathetic,” she snaps, vitriol burning her throat as she speaks. She doesn’t care if this makes her seem like a “bad victim” to the jury; she doesn’t care if being honest about her hatred will steal the courtroom's sympathy and make them blame her for what she did. Grandpa's lawyer told her to try to be as sweet and innocent as she could, so the jury would feel sorry for her, but she can't hide the truth of her feelings. All she can think about is how pitiful Marty is. He beat her and raped her when there were no witnesses, but now that his sins are brought to the light—now that he stands before a jury of his peers—he collapses like a human house of cards.

 _You called me worthless, but at least I’m honest about what I am,_ she thinks. _If they don’t throw you in prison, I’ll kill you myself. I'll take a knife to your throat and this time I won't give up. I’ll set your house on fire and block the doors. I’ll hurt you... I'll make you suffer…I'll give you what you deserve..._

"Order!" The judge yells, pounding his heavy gavel. When he dismisses her, Lisa leaves immediately, unable to stomach the sickening atmosphere. Before she escapes, however, she takes her last glance at Marty Armstrong to find him on his hands and knees, sobbing. Then Lisa's friends surround her, giving her words of encouragement as they walk her out of the courthouse. They tell her she's brave, but she worries that their kind words are wasted on her, like pearls before a swine. _Did I just ruin everything?_ Her heart pounds so hard that she can only think about the blood rushing in her ear and the fear that washes over her. _I got angry. I called him pathetic,_ she thinks. _Will the jury think I'm a bitch because of that? Will they think he's innocent because he's crying? Will they think I'm a dirty, lying whore who's making it all up?_

A leather-gloved hand squeezes her shoulders. Dice Mahone's sky-blue eyes sparkle with encouragement as he smiles down at her. “You’re safe now,” he says.

 _I’m not safe,_ she thinks. _I will never be safe._ But she won't voice those ugly thoughts. Instead, she smiles up at him, squinting in the sunlight’s glare. Under the bright sky, Lisa and her new friends go to an ice cream parlor, and the looks they get are priceless. Lisa imagines the image they paint: a crowd of beefy men and women, all wearing black leather, thick boots, spikes, and tattoos are crowded in a booth with a tiny little girl. It must be an unusual sight, and Lisa feels pride well up in her chest. _They're here for me,_ she reminds herself. _If they think I'm worth their time, maybe I am._

Lisa tries to enjoy the moment; she tries to push the past to the back of her mind and be grateful for their support, but it's hard.

Life taught her that she will never be safe. Even if dad goes to prison, he’ll probably be let out early for good behavior again. Or if that doesn’t happen, she might meet another man who tries to kidnap her, like the bastard at the bus station, or like the evil man in the rain, who talked about his daddy and is the reason she can't enjoy the taste of chocolate anymore.

Lisa can’t ever forget what happened. All she can do is be vigilant — and work to be a better person, according to the therapist Grandpa makes her go to every week.

The first few times Lisa meets Thomas, she stays silent, stubborn, and angry with Grandpa for forcing her to do this. But Thomas is a patient man; although he looks sweet and nonthreatening with his chubby frame, jolly smile, and bright, purple clothing, he’s just as stubborn as she. Every week, he asks her the same questions: "How are you?" or "What's the best thing that happened this week?" until she feels guilty for ignoring him or giving him one-word answers. Eventually, she opens up to him, albeit reluctantly; she mostly wants to stop hearing his endless stories about his mundane life, which she suspects are a trick to wear down her resistance. It works: she first starts talking just so she can stop hearing his countless stories about his cats.

Initially, Lisa tells him why she ran away. Then she talks about what it was like. She focuses on the good parts of the experience, like her friendship with Dustin or the great books she read at the many libraries she went to. Later, they visit topics that are harder to talk about. Often these discussions touch upon the topic of shame. Thomas coaxes painful truths out of her, like:

“I wish I had been an easier child for grandpa to raise.”

“I wish I didn’t fight so much with the other kids.”

“I wish I listened to Brad instead of asking to meet my dad.”

Whenever Lisa shared her regrets, Thomas would have the same question: “Why do you feel this way?” Her answers usually boiled down to, “Because then my life would have been better.”

“Not necessarily,” he says. “It would be _different—_ and then, you might be a different person, too.”

“That would be a good thing."

“Why?”

“Because then, I’d be good,” she usually says, but other times, she’s more specific: “Then, people would like me. I wouldn’t be hurt. I would be normal. I would be happy.”

“No one goes through life unhurt,” Thomas says. He likes to dissuade her guilty thoughts and reframe her ideas with leading questions, all of which lead to a stern lesson: “Guilt is the feeling that what we've done is wrong. It can serve a valuable purpose: Guilt lets us know when we've made mistakes. It makes us responsible for improving our behavior. _Sha_ _me_ is different: It’s the feeling that who we _are_ is wrong. Shame does not help you. It holds you back. I want us to overcome that shame.”

It's an idea that takes Lisa a long time to understand. She’d spent her whole life being called messy, rude, loud, bad — then she went to school, where teachers labeled her a disruptive problem child and classmates called her creepy, bitchy, white trash. She longed for a fresh start, a place to be loved unconditionally, so when she heard her dad was finally free, she jumped at the opportunity to meet him. Yet all he taught her was that she was a slutty tease, a worthless whore, an ingrate.

Week after week, year after year, Lisa works with Thomas to unravel the strangling rope of other people’s expectations. Nothing was easy; life marched on, and Lisa limped 10 feet behind, struggling to catch up to her peers, all of whom seemed to have a huge head start. Thomas tells her not to compare herself to others. “We’re all on different paths,” he says one day. “We all grow in different ways. The bonsai tree doesn’t compare itself to the oak tree—”

“Well, it’s way smaller, so it should. It's clearly inferior.”

“They're both beautiful in their own ways. They can’t be pitted against one another.”

“Fair enough,” Lisa says. “At least you didn’t compare me to a cactus. Then I'd be insulted.”

“Cacti are a highly celebrated subject in Southwestern art, you know.”

“I was joking.”

“I was reminding you that there’s value in different things, even if they’re deemed ‘strange’ or ‘unusual.’ There’s beauty in differences.”

“I see. So if I try hard enough, maybe I, too, can become an iconic aspect of Southwestern art?” She jokes.

Thomas stifles a laugh. “Lisa, anything is possible if you put your mind to it.”

His optimistic platitude sours her mood. “Even going back in time and stopping my past self from being a stupid piece of shit?”

“Lisa…” Thomas takes a deep breath. “You should be more forgiving of yourself.”

“Why? I fucked up and hurt myself!”

“We can’t change the past. We can only move forward.”

“Well, duh. What else can we do?”

“We can learn to love ourselves, regardless of what we’ve done.”

“Why? What’s the point?”

“Lisa, at every second of every day, you’re keeping yourself company. Imagine being stuck with someone you strongly dislike. Doesn’t that sound unbearable?” She nods, so he continues: “Thus, you should be kind to the one person you spend all of your time with: yourself. Maybe, you could even learn to love her."

“…I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m too mad at myself! Don’t you understand? Every bad thing that ever happened to me was _my fault!_ I’m the problem!”

“No, you’re not! Nothing that happened was your fault!”

“But — when I called him, grandpa said—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says, refusing to back down, and Lisa starts crying so hard she can barely speak. Thomas hands her a box of tissues; he never makes her feel bad for crying. He just waits for her to get it all out. When the worst of it is out of the way, and she’s sniffling and wiping her nose, Thomas speaks again. "I want you to tell yourself 'It wasn't my fault' whenever you go back to what happened. Say it aloud or think it, again and again. Make that phrase a part of your permanent thoughts.”

“For how long?”

“Until you believe it.”

 _That would take forever!_ As if he can read her thoughts, Thomas nods sternly. “It wasn’t your fault. Say it with me: ‘It wasn’t my fault.’”

Lisa’s throat is tight from her sobs, so her voice comes out as a croak. “It wasn’t my fault.”

Thomas nods. “Never forget that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas is [Mr. Beautiful](https://lisa-rpg.fandom.com/wiki/Mr._Beautiful) from "The Joyful". I've always headcanoned that he was a therapist. He just has that kind and calming demeanor...
> 
> The group that Dice Mahone and his friends are in is a real organization! It's called Bikers Against Child Abuse, also known as B.A.C.A. You can learn more about it in this sweet and touching TED Talk [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWwynTuelVs).
> 
> Also, I wanted to take a moment and just say thank you to everyone who's read this far! This will be the last Lisa POV chapter of Part II. I hope you've enjoyed following her throughout this difficult period of her life... and, as always, if you could leave a comment to share your thoughts, I would be really grateful!💙


	20. Brad VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back to Brad! This chapter was kind of tough to write, since it's been quite a while since we got to see things from his perspective.
> 
> Also, I wanted to give a special thanks to everyone who commented last chapter! It made me really happy knowing that you guys enjoyed Lisa's arc. I hope you'll enjoy jumping back into Brad's POV!

“Don’t do it, man.”

Brad’s fist throbbed after punching the wall. He couldn’t look at Dice Mahone; his anger was so great he wanted to throttle the first person he looked at. But he couldn't hurt this kind stranger who had helped Lisa these past few months. He couldn't hurt the guy who offered to come over for moral support when Brad had to give his own testimony, when he had to admit to a courtroom that his sister's abuse had been going on under his nose for _years._ He felt like an ugly, worthless creature, a failure of an older brother, a blind fool who failed his family — and when he got angry, he got into fights. But he didn't want to hurt Dice, so he channeled all his rage into the wall, fought through the tears and bit his tongue until he tasted rust. By the time he caged his temper, Brad could barely feel his fingers.

“Feel better?” Dice was leaning against the red wall, leather-clad arms crossed over his muscular chest. A lock of sky-blue hair dangled down his white shirt, the rest tossed over his shoulder and hidden behind a popped collar.

Brad lifted his swollen hand, which blossomed with purple bruises. “What do _you_ think?”

His glower cooled under Dice’s calm gaze. “Better the wall than your old man.”

Anger crinkled Brad’s face. “He deserves it.” He spat a wad of saliva into the alleyway’s cement floor. “I want to kill him. I want to rip him, limb from—”

“Easy there.” Dice held his hand up. “Remember what we talked about. If you went after him, you'd just get thrown into jail, and then you wouldn't be any help to Lisa.”

“We don’t know if I’d go to jail,” Brad argued. “I could get away with it. No one would even miss him.”

“ _Brad._ ”

“He won’t get what he deserves, even if he _is_ convicted. Last time, he got out early for good behavior. This time—”

“Listen. I’ve only done this for a few years, but I’ve seen guys go down that road. It never ends well. You want to help your sister, right?” Seeing Brad solemn and silent, Dice continued. “She needs you, man. Out here. Fighting him won't give him justice. Have faith in the jury. They'll do what's right. They'll give him what he deserves.”

“He deserves to rot in Hell!” Brad snapped.

“He’ll rot in prison,” Dice said, “which is damn near the same."

"Is it? After eight years, it didn't change him at all. Still the same sick bastard he was when I was a kid." Brad shook his head. "I can't believe... what he did to Lisa. I knew he was scum, but I never thought... I..." He could feel tears welling up in his eyes. _Goddamn it,_ he thought. _You're gonna cry in front of a stranger? Worthless little shit._ He took in a deep breath, but he couldn't stop his fists from shaking.

Dice stepped closer and put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't blame yourself, Brad. The only one to blame is Marty -- and the court knows that. He'll go through the system and go back to prison."

"Can we even trust the system?" Brad asked, bitterness tainting his tone. "If the system worked the first time, he would still be behind bars. He shouldn't have been let out."

“Didn’t the system help you as a kid?" Dice argued. "Yes, the system can fuck up, but it can also help: You and Lisa were taken away from him and placed with with your grandpa. You telling me that was a mistake?”

"Fat lot of good it did,” Brad said. “She and I are all fucked up.”

“Everyone’s fucked up,” Dice told him. “But you can get help for it.”

“Help?” Brad snapped. “Why? Nothing will ever undo what happened.”

“You’re right,” Dice said. “But, it will help you cope with what happened.”

“I don't need help coping. Lisa's the one who was hurt."

“And she’s seeing a professional to talk about it. But... you're also affected by what happened. There's no shame in talking to someone about it, sorting your feelings out. It would help.”

“Nothing happened to me.” Brad grit his teeth. “I don’t need help.”

“And yet you beat a wall till you damn near broke your fist.” Dice stared at him evenly. “That's not a sign of a man who's coping well.”

Brad took a step forward; he was shorter than most men, which could make intimidation tough, but Dice was close enough in height for them to stand nearly nose-to-nose. Before he could spit out a threat, though, a brightly colored business card popped in front of his face. A smiling psychologist looked at him beside a phone number and address. “This person saved my life,” Dice said, calm despite Brad's anger. “A while ago, I was just where you are now: One wrong look away from killing someone."

Brad stared at the card before slowly taking it from Dice's hands. _A psychologist? Really?_ An ugly voice in the back of his head whispered. _Nothing happened to you. You don't deserve help. You have the nerve to make your sister's suffering about you?_

As if he could hear Brad's thoughts, Dice spoke again. "That darkness you feel... It’ll swallow you whole, unless you do something about it.”

He clapped a hand on Brad's shoulder before walking away, past the courthouse and towards the street. Brad didn’t turn to see him off. He made no move from the alleyway until the thunderous growls from Dice's receding motorcycle faded into faraway whimpers.

* * *

By the time a city cocktail of booze and uppers emboldened Brad to dial those digits, it was late at night. Nobody would be in the office to pick up the phone. Club music so loud it rattled Brad’s bones obscured the psychologist office's voicemail greeting, but he could hear the high-pitched beep that signaled him to leave a message.

“Haha, _heyyy!_ ” His voice had the telltale slur of too many bottles. “M’name’s Brad. My guy Dice wants to hook me up with you guys. My number’s 303-962… _aaah,_ forget it.” He could barely hear himself; how would the receptionist be able to make out his words next morning? They would probably write it off as a crank call and block his number. So much for professional help.

Then again, what help did he need? Pills in one hand and alcohol in the other was all the medication he needed, and this club was cooler than any professional’s office could hope to be. Bland white walls and last year’s magazines were all that awaited him there; here, the room brimmed with colorful decor and sparkling disco balls that shot light over the writhing bodies on the dance floor.

Chaos was freeing. Brad’s true self sprung free with the taste of booze; smiles came easier than ever before, and when a tiny pill flooded his brain with chemicals, he felt full for the first time. Here, he was the Nobody, who didn’t have to worry about managing business or paying rent or failing Lisa. Here, he knew only Joy.

Everyone around him shared in the revelry, pounding their feet and twisting their limbs to the music, which guided their moves like puppets on a string. Endless glory unfolded on faces from the dance floor to the bar. 

Brad watched them all: a guy in a mohawk, high off his ass and dancing with a tongue out; a couple grinding and bumping into others on the dance floor; a young girl at the bar, blushing and giggling as a man touched her cheek; the guy whispering in her ear, his eyes dark with hunger.

As Brad watched them, his heart ached. He always wanted a loving partnership, but whenever he got too close, things always fell apart. At the beginning, girls found him intriguing, the bachelor martial artist. Then they realized he was a dumb hick who kept quiet not because he was mysterious, but because he had nothing to say. Most left once they got to know him, but some stuck around — and anyone who spent enough time around Brad would inevitably see him drunk, high, or both. And when he was under the influence, his true thoughts came out: all the pent-up rage, all the fear and all the ugliness. 

No one stayed after that, and he couldn't blame them. Deep down, he was terrified he would break, lose his cool in a fight and beat his loved ones until they looked and with the same terror his eyes had when he looked at Dad. Turning into that monster was his greatest fear, and it cast a shadow over every good thing in his life. It meant he had no one to go out with, no one to whisper sweet nothings to as she drunkenly stumbled off her seat, no one to grab and hold tight as she struggled—

Brad paused; this picture wasn't right. The couple his mind painted as the elusive ideal was fighting. The man grabbed her arm hard, and she tried to pull away, but he dragged her close and said something that made her face fall. As Brad neared, he could make out the girl's voice: “Please, leave me alone. I don't want to.”

“Come on, baby. Who paid for all your drinks?” A hand slithered down her back. 

Although his voice was smooth and seductive, the girl flinched, worry etched over her features. "I-I don't owe you anything! Please, let me go!" 

“Not yet,” the man whispered, his expression cocky. It morphed into surprise when a hand thumped down on his shoulder. 

“Hey guys.” Brad's voice boomed in his ears. “Everything okay here?” 

“Uh, yeah.” The guy wrinkled his nose. “Get lost, dude. Can't you see we're in the middle of something here?” But the girl looked at Brad with hope in her frightened face. “Hey!” The guy whistled and snapped his fingers in Brad’s face. “Over here. Look at me and read my lips: Get lost!”

“She doesn’t look too good,” Brad said. The world was blurry at the edges; the drugs were kicking in, so he needed to act quickly. “She told you to stop.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“I heard her.”

“Haven’t you heard of _roleplay,_ dude? We’re just playing. Getting a little freaky. You know how it is.”

Brad did _not_ know “how it is.” He paused, uncertain. He’d never done anything like this, never _heard_ of anything like it, but it sounded plausible and the man spoke with such confidence that he felt unsure. He glanced at the girl, who looked at him with pleading eyes. “He’s lying!” She said. "I asked him to let me go! Please, help!"

The guy smirked. “You see?” He told Brad. “She likes to pretend she doesn’t want it, but I know she does. Isn’t that right, baby?”

She pushed against his chest, but his arms held her tight. “How many times do I have to tell you no? Get _off_ of me!”

“Nothing to worry about over here.” The guy gave Brad a sleazy smile. “Just a boyfriend and girlfriend getting kinky to spice things up.” His face fell into a glare. “You’re cramping our style, dude. Seriously, get lost.”

Maybe the guy was being honest; maybe they _were_ roleplaying, and Brad was too drunk or high to comprehend the subtleties, but he _could_ comprehend a crying girl asking for help. _Better to be safe than sorry,_ he thought. Brad grabbed the man’s wrist and jerked it away from the girl’s arm, stepping between them to cut off all contact. 

“What the _fuck,_ dude?!” The man lost all semblance of swagger; now his face twisted in offense. “We were just flirting!”

“No, we weren’t!” The girl yelled over Brad’s shoulder. “I’m not going home with you, so go away!”

The man gasped; then his shock boiled into fury. “You _whore!_ ” He shrieked. “You fucking gold digger—tease— _bitch!_ Stop lying and tell the truth!”

The girl shrank back in fear, and Brad tensed. Marty said the same thing in the courtroom. He yelled at Lisa, desperate to convince the jury he was innocent, denying the truth even though medical records showed proof of his crimes. Even though Lisa testified with wet cheeks and a shaky voice, Marty screamed that she was a liar and he was an innocent man.

“Don’t listen to that dumb whore,” Marty said. “She’s just a stupid slut. All she’s good at is lying and spreading her—”

_Crack._

The man’s body thudded when it hit the floor, and he gripped his head and swore as he staggered to his feet. Brad sidestepped his punch and threw an uppercut into his throat. Dad fell back into the bar, hitting drinks that crashed to the floor in a shower of glass.

_"Worthless shit kid.”_

Brad kicked his side, the same way dad would kick him whenever Brad fell to the floor during a beating.

_“He told me it was how a father showed his love. He said a good daughter would have been grateful.”_

Brad’s ears rang from a well-placed punch to his ear; white noise engulfed the world, and all he could see was that bloody bastard ahead of him, a pervert who would never suffer the way he deserved.

 _“He always said it was my fault, since if I weren’t pretty he wouldn’t want me. I called Grandpa asking for help, but he never came. He said that a father has a right to discipline his children_ _however he wants to.”_

Blood trickled down Brad’s face. Glass cracked beneath Marty’s feet, then against Brad’s forehead when a bottle smashed into his skull. “Fuck you, asshole!” Dad yelled, but his voice sounded different.

_“I didn’t know, Brad, I swear to God. I thought Marty was hitting her when she acted out—"_

_“And you thought that was okay? You didn’t stop to think, ‘Maybe if she’s calling me in the middle of the night, this is some serious shit and I should step in’?”_

_“You don’t ge_ _t it._ _In my generation, a father had the right to hit his kids. I grew up thinking that was normal. I thought that’s all Marty was doing.”_

 _“That’s no excuse. You should have known better! You let him_ — _you let him_ — _"_

_“I never knew what was going on, I swear it. If I had, I would have stepped in.”_

_“But you didn’t. You let your son hurt your own granddaughter. My sister! And you sent her back, year after year!”_

The girl was screaming, but Brad didn’t care. He slammed his foot into Marty’s back, again and again, until his Dad fell onto the floor and curled up as if he were praying. The last time he saw Dad like this was when they lived together, when Lisa was a baby who had just been beaten. Brad tucked her in bed and held her bruised body as it shook with sobs. When he crept downstairs for food a few hours later, he found Marty on his hands and knees, praying before a garish, golden cross. “Father forgive me, for I have sinned…”

Brad would never forgive him. Even as police slammed him into the club floor and clamped handcuffs around his wrists, he felt proud. He did the right thing. He stopped the predator from preying on the weak. Officers could slam his head against the police car before shoving him into the tight backseat, but he knows he'd done well.

All the way to the station, he smiled with bloody teeth.

* * *

A few hours later, Brad sleeping in a cell when an officer's yell woke him up: "They're bringing in the paddy wagon."

The ensuing conversation described a bust at a gay bar downtown. Brad hadn't the slightest clue _why_ the bar needed to be broken into, but the slurs and sneers flying between the officers gave him a hint. 

A few hours spent shivering in a cell had somewhat sobered him. The buzz from earlier still gave him a pleasant feeling of light-headedness, but the chemical high that set his nerves alight was starting to plummet, dragging Brad back to dreary reality. There, judgment, disappointment, and anger waited for him. His taste buds ached for a cool, refreshing taste of beer so he could wash those feelings away; instead, the cell door opened, and in came an influx of men with bruised, miserable faces.

"Sleep tight, ladies," the cop said before locking the new men in. Most of their clothes were colorful and stylish, but some men had ripped fabric and bloodstains from the bust. Calling them "ladies" was downright kind compared to the hateful insults the officers were slinging around earlier, but the newcomers glowered all the same. "Watch out for Bubba back there," the cop said, pointing at Brad. "Or maybe that's what you sick fucks want."

Brad stiffened at the implication. He was no sexual threat to anyone; he was nothing like his father, but the blood, bruises, and scuff marks from his earlier fight told a different story, made the men shrink away.

"Fuck you, pig!" One of the men stood taller than the rest, with long golden hair and a crimson shirt that sparkled in the dim light. He spat through the bars at the policeman's feet.

The cop stepped back, but his eyes darkened. "You're gonna regret that, bitch."

"Then unlock this door and fight me, man to man." Although the blond man puffed out his chest and threw his arms wide, the cop ignored his taunts. When he left, the blond shook the bars, screaming, "Coward! I'll kill you!"

There were around five men shoved with Brad; seven more had been thrown into a cell beside them. Since they were packed in like sardines, a short, black-haired guy had to push through his friends to lay a hand on the man's shoulder. "Roger, calm down," he whispered. "You're gonna get us in even more trouble."

"I don't give a _fuck!"_ Roger spun around, wet eyes wild with anger. "They deserve to suffer! Did you see what they did to the girls? They—they just dragged them off, and—"

"Shhh." Another man stepped forward, touching Roger's hand. "There's nothing we can do."

"Goddammit!" Roger stepped back, bumping into the cell's cold, hard bars. He looked ready to snap someone's neck, and Brad recognized the righteous fury he himself had felt at Marty's trial. Injustice was impossible to swallow and even harder to correct. How could one man take on a gang of policemen? How could a son overcome his cruel father? Looking at Roger was like seeing himself in a broken mirror; Brad saw the reflection of his own raw anger, and it frightened him. _Is this how Dice felt when he watched me fall apart?_

At first, it was strange to see a group of bikes parked along Grandpa's pristine, green lawn. When Brad saw a black motorcycle with a raging fire decal leaning against the white picket fence, he thought he was dreaming. Then, when he walked in to see Lisa smiling for the first time in months as she served tea to a gang of grizzly bikers, his heart melted. When the police dropped her off, she seemed cold and lifeless; she used to run up for a hug whenever he visited, but for months she looked through him. Once she befriended Dice Mahone, Lady Tank, and the rest, her old self slowly emerged. For that, Brad was eternally grateful.

Dice was the gang's leader and the one Lisa clicked with the most. She chattered and joked with him in the warm, familiar way she used to have with Brad. At first, he was jealous, but soon he found it hard to hate such a consistently kind guy. When Dice offered to go with him when he testified against Marty, that sealed the deal. They were friends.

Brad hoped he didn't fuck it up with his anger, but Dice was so calm and patient, he hoped they would be cool. He was nothing like the man currently in Brad's face, the tall, muscular blond whose flushed cheeks matched the bright red of his sparkling shirt. 

"And _you,"_ Roger said, jabbing a manicured nail between Brad's eyes. "You'd better not mess with my queers. Understand, 'Bubba?'"

"My name's Brad."

"I don't care what your name is, as long as you don't hurt my friends. I'll knock you into next week if you lay a finger on any of us."

"I'm not going to touch any of you," Brad said loudly. He wanted to make it clear that he wouldn't bother anyone, but Roger seemed to misinterpret him, seemed to see the volume of his voice as a threat. 

"Why not?" He taunted. "You afraid the gay will rub off on you?" He stepped closer so their faces were a few inches away, and Brad recognized the telltale dilation of drug use in his eyes. Neither one of them was sober. Maybe drugs brought out Roger's violent side, or maybe it was the humiliating mistreatment from the officers. Either way, it was clear Roger was hurting and hungry to reclaim some semblance of power through fighting. Brad sympathized. He just wished the anger weren't directed his way.

"Nope," he said calmly. "Don't want a fight."

Roger narrowed his dark blue eyes. "You sure, big man?"

"Positive." He tensed as Roger leaned closer, roaming his dark eyes over Brad's bruised face. For a moment, he thought Roger would punch him anyway. Surprisingly, he stepped back and sighed.

"I guess you've had enough fighting for today, judging by your busted mug." Roger leaned against the cell wall and crossed his arms, looking Brad up and down with a judgmental expression. Suddenly Brad felt embarrassed for not dressing up; he had a colorful floral shirt and blue jeans with his old, reliable boots. They weren't anywhere near as new or fashionable as Roger's threads, and he wondered if he had enough extra cash for a snazzy new jacket. 

Now that the potential violence dissipated, a collective sigh fell throughout the cells. Roger's friends settled in their hard confinement; some sat on the cold benches, while others stood by and murmured among themselves. "What happened to you, anyway?" Roger asked.

Brad looked away. "I gave someone what he deserved."

Thick, black eyebrows rose in surprise. "Interesting," Roger drawled. The corner of his mouth was bright purple from a recent punch, but his glimmering eyes were unmarked. "Don't stop there. I love a good revenge story."

He shrugged. "Some jackass tried to take a drunk girl home, but she didn't want to. He wouldn't let her go, so I stopped him."

"Looks like he did a number on you."

"You'd say the same if he were here. But he wouldn't hear you, since he was unconscious last I saw him."

Roger's bruise rose when he smiled. "Good job taking out the trash."

“Thanks,” Brad said. "I just wish the cops weren't called.”

The blond's face fell. "I know what you mean. If I find the person who ratted me and my guys out, I'll kill him. Or her. Whoever it is will get their face bashed in with my bat. That's a promise." When he got no response except stunned silence, he continued: "I'm not joking, by the way."

"Okay," Brad said, his voice equally calm. 

Roger watched him closely. "Nothing to say?"

"I get it.” Brad was afraid of saying anything more; he might start talking about how much he wanted to kill Marty, and then _he_ would be the one aching for a fight, just so he could beat the feelings away. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes so he wouldn't dwell on dark thoughts.

"Well, _that's_ a rare response." Roger laughed. "Most people freak out when I talk like that."

Brad's eyes popped open. "Do you often talk about wanting to kill people?"

Roger smirked. "Ah, come on. I only talk about those who deserve it."

"The world's full of people who deserve to be killed," Brad said without thinking. "So you must be talking all the time."

"Ha!" Roger threw his head back, his white teeth gleaming in an unsettling grin. "Well said. Too bad the world is shit at doling out justice." 

The truthful words struck Brad to the core. Instead of saying anything, he looked down at his feet and realized a shard of glass was lodged into the side of his soles. For a moment, he considered yanking it out, but then he might cut his finger, and he doubted the policemen would give a band-aid. Even if the men sharing his cell had a spare bandage, they had too many injuries of their own to patch up. When Brad looked up, he found Roger wearing a solemn expression. "That's why we have to make our own," he muttered.

Brad frowned. "Our own what?"

Roger's eyes snapped towards him. "Our own justice," he said. "You can't trust that good things will happen. You can't trust that people will get their just desserts. Just think about all those fucking pigs out there." His lip curled in disgust. "We're not bothering anyone. We're just _existing._ And for some reason these self-righteous assholes whose job it is to _protect_ us break into our place and rough us up. Did you see that guy who threw us in here? He molested the women he was supposed to be frisking. He hurt my boys, spat in our faces, cussed us out the whole time. He deserves to be fired. But that won't happen, 'cause cops protect their own." His eyes narrowed. "But I'm going to remember that bastard's face, and mark my words, when I get out—"

"Shhh." Brad put a finger to his lips before pointing to an officer standing by the door. "Don't want them tracing any murders back to you."

"Good thinking." Roger smirked. "You don't talk much, but you're pretty cool for a whacked-out, quarter-life crisis-looking guy."

Brad smiled wearily. "I'm glad you think so. But seriously, good luck with... whatever you're gonna do." He paused, unsure if he should stay quiet or not. "I wish I had your conviction."

"What do you mean?"

“You’re confident in your beliefs. I’m not. They change all the time.”

“Your beliefs on justice, you mean?”

“Yeah.” Brad nodded. “I’m just... trying to have faith that the system will work. But I don't think any amount of prison time would give him what he deserves."

"Who? The guy you just fought?"

"No..." Brad licked his lips; he felt sick talking about this, but booze loosened his tongue, and Roger's eyes were soft with sympathy. "Someone else."

“Who?”

“I won’t talk about who." Brad's voice was tight with anger.

“Okay.” Roger held up his hands in acquiescence. “But, I mean—personally, I don’t believe in having faith. That shit’s pointless. Standing around, waiting for something good to happen? Nah. You gotta make good things happen.” He paused. “And in this case, that ‘good thing’ would be someone getting what they deserve.”

Brad thought for a moment and lowered his voice. “What you were saying earlier...about killing people...that was all, uh, joking, right? You weren’t being serious?”

Roger’s blue eyes twinkled. “Hmmm. Wouldn’t you like to know?” He shook his head, smiling. “But on a more serious note: I don't know your situation, so I can't give you any advice, but... well... Do you believe in karma?"

Brad shook his head. "Nah. I don't think so."

"Me neither," Roger said. "This guy you’re thinking of… is he in jail?”

“No.” Brad scowled. “He paid his bail, so he’s home, but the trial’s still on. It’s been half a year now, and I don’t even know if he’s gonna be ruled guilty or innocent.”

“Then…you might have some time to drop in for a visit, right?”

The implication hung in the air. It grew ripe in the silence. 

“Just something to think about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queen Roger is a fascinating character. I've always loved him -- his fashion, his toughness, and especially his fondness for uplifting other people made him one of my favorite companions. At the same time, he's described as a a violent person who ["has been known to kill people". ](https://lisa-rpg.fandom.com/wiki/Queen_Roger)
> 
> I always wondered how Roger came to be this way. In this chapter, Roger and his friends are thrown in jail after the gay bar they work at got raided by cops. When he meets Brad, Roger feels humiliated and vengeful. They meet on one of the worst days of their lives -- and their conversation will have a huge impact on Brad. 
> 
> Brad as a character is also a little hard to pin down, at least as an adult. Austin describes him as "a strong man with a weak center," which I tried to depict here. He has _some_ strong beliefs -- which lead him to protect the woman at the club -- but he's also very uncertain about his stances on other topics, like justice, which makes him easy to persuade... 
> 
> Thanks again for reading this chapter, and I really hope you enjoyed it! As always, I would love to hear your opinion in the comments. :)


	21. Brad VII

Grandpa always said bad things come in threes. If they were still on speaking terms, Brad would call him up asking for advice. As it was, Brad was completely alone and unsure about his next steps.

The man at the club decided to press charges. It was shocking, but Brad swallowed his anger and nodded at the officer, and started searching for lawyers. It turned out that hiring professional help would wring his wallet so dry it would run out of money and offer only sand instead. Now, Brad had to accept help from an overworked, stressed-out public defender as he pleaded not guilty of assault and battery.

 _He was trying to take a girl home without her consent,_ Brad thought, wondering how he could be judged for stepping in. He tried to bolster himself up by thinking that the jury would take his side, but the more he researched, the bleaker his view became. The man he was going up against was the son of a prominent politician. He had endless coffers for high-powered lawyers who could beat down his defenses and twist his truths into whatever tale they wanted to tell. It was a hopeless situation, and the more Brad mulled it over, the more his taste buds tingled for a drug that could whisk his worries away.

That might put him in an even worse situation.

Brad paced around his empty apartment, glaring at the floor as he struggled to bat away his frenzied thoughts. He couldn't go back to work; the dojo was closed for Labor Day. All of his friends would only want to party, and he had to avoid that for the time being. There was nothing he could think of to do, so he wandered through the small rooms, cleaning aimlessly, looking over his cluttered refrigerator full of drawings his karate students had gifted to him over the past four years. 

A stained calendar hung on the dirty side. Brad flipped through it, absentmindedly noting the different events: a date night written back in January, a court case appointment in May, holidays and birthdays, and everything in-between. Near the end, the first two months of the next year were mostly blank, except for a note on February 13th, written in his ex-girlfriend's hand: "This will be Lisa's 13th birthday! We should plan something special since she missed her 12th."

The thought gave him pause. Although his partner was long gone, she had a good point. Lisa hadn't had a decent party in years, and she'd spent her last birthday shivering on the streets in god knows what town. It might be fun to plan a party ahead of time, invite some friends and buy a nice cake from a fancy bakery. As Brad thought about it, images of vivid balloons, chocolate cakes, and bountiful presents shooed away nightmares of expensive legal fees and assault charges. Instead, he started thinking about who he could invite and what gifts Lisa would like.

He would have to invite the BACA members who helped Lisa through the past seven months; that was a given. Lisa had grown attached to them and gained a found family of strong and supportive people who encouraged her to be the best version of herself. He could invite some of the kids from his martial arts classes; a few friendly and outgoing students came to mind. Maybe they could be a good influence on Lisa, who spent so much of her time holed up in her room, reading books and ignoring most of the world.

Now that he thought about it, Lisa didn't mention making any friends in her new classes. Grandpa had transferred Lisa to a different school, which was a whole town away from her old one; he wanted to give her a new start, far away from the gang of girls she constantly got into fights with. Despite his reasoning, Grandpa constantly grumbled under his breath about having to drive an extra half an hour in the mornings. Then, Lisa would snap that he didn't have to drive her in the first place since she could take the bus or hitch a ride.

It was depressing to see how little had changed between them. 

"You're his favorite," Lisa told him, years ago, accusation in her eyes. "He loves you more than he loves me."

"That's not true."

"That's a fact," she insisted. "He's always going after me, policing my every move. He doesn't do that to you!"

"It's because he's worried about you," Brad said. "He wants to make sure you're okay."

"It doesn't feel like it! It feels like I'm a criminal!"

At the time, Brad thought she was being a dramatic preteen. Now that he had the full story, and he knew that Grandpa had dismissed her when she said Marty hurt her, the memory stung. Maybe she was right, and Grandpa _had_ been too hard on her.

Brad remembers sitting with him on the front porch one night, swinging on rocking chairs as they drank beer to the soundtrack of crickets. 

"Sometimes, it's hard to be around her," Grandpa said. He didn't often vent, so at the time, Brad was proud. He liked feeling worthy of trust, liked being a man someone strong like Grandpa could confide in. "She reminds me so much of her namesake."

"Namesake? What do you mean?" Brad had asked.

"My ex-wife," he sighed, throwing back a gulp of beer. He squinted, either at the taste or the memory of his long-dead spouse. "Martin named your sister after his mother. Did you know that?"

Brad shook his head. "No. He rarely talked about her."

"She wasn't a woman worth talking about," Grandpa said. Then he sighed and rubbed his eyes. "No, that's not fair. He just... she... they had a strange relationship. Too damn close. Disturbing is what it was."

Brad pursed his lips. "What do you mean?"

"He was always clinging to her. A sniveling, needy mama's boy. And she had the backbone of a gummy bear. Gave him everything he wanted, even if it was—" He paused. "You know what I saw him doing, one time? Saw him leaning over her while she was sleeping. Their faces were so close. He was so fixated on her, the bastard didn't know I was in the doorway. Then he kissed her and woke her up. Instead of yelling at him and smacking him away, as a good mom would have, she asked why he did it."

Grandpa stopped talking. His weathered features were drawn in confusion, and his eyes looked strained like he had seen something disturbing. Brad wasn't sure if it was right to pry, but he was curious. He had never imagined his dad as a little boy before; Marty was always a titan in his mind, large and godlike and all-powerful. It was hard to see him as a little boy kissing his sleeping mom. "What happened?"

"He said he loved her and wanted to be closer to her." Now Grandpa's lips were twisted in disgust. "Well, that was the first time I caught them, but he always wanted to be _closer_. I pulled him aside and told him not to do that shit again, that it wasn't normal, and the sneaky fucker said he understood. Then I caught him in bed with her, and he was— he was—" He took another deep sip, and Brad could see the anger in his eyes, sharp and raw.

"She was sleeping, or at least pretending to. And he was watching her, moving his hand under the cover, like he was... you know. I was so mad, I grabbed my wife by her long, red braid and jerked her out of bed. I asked her why the fuck she thought that was acceptable, why she let our son sleep with her and do those kinds of things. She kept sputtering out stupid excuses, but I could see it in her eyes. It was all her fault."

Age had shrunken the skin on his hands; they looked frail now, with the bones of his knuckles jutting out of papery flesh, but Brad noted the size of his meaty palm, the thickness of his long fingers. He could imagine those hands decades ago, strong with youth and violent with righteous anger. He imagined them winding through a woman's hair and jerking her by the scalp until she was a trembling mess on the floor. Now, the loose skin trembled with rage. He was lost in his memories. Brad touched his shoulder, and Grandpa met his eyes, took a deep breath, and returned to the present. 

"At least, I thought it was her fault at the time. I did hit her," he admitted, his voice lowering. He cleared his throat and went on: "But back then, a husband was allowed to do it. Men were expected to keep their women in line, you know? And I couldn't believe my son would be that fucked up. I thought it was her. I thought she... wanted him to. So I blamed her. Because it was easier to think she was in the wrong than accept that my son... my boy was..." He stopped talking.

Brad stared at him, unsure of what to say. Inside his skull, confusing thoughts bounced around his mind. Nothing Grandpa was saying made sense. It was like trying to shove together puzzle pieces that didn't match.

"I think I realized it eventually. How fucked up he was," Grandpa murmured. "I would handle it differently now. Lisa was always spineless. Her parents raised her to be a 'yes man.' They taught her a good girl is obedient and quiet and does whatever she's told. I liked her at first, but then I realized how _weak_ she was. My wife couldn't say no to _anyone_ , least of all her own son. She was too stupid to realize what was going on, I think. So I blamed her. I called her a monster, a pervert, a predator. Everything I could think of, I called her. And the dumb bitch believed me." He sighed. "She died thinking I hated her."

He fell into silence after that, and Brad followed his example, swallowing a gulp of beer to wash away the conflict twisting in his gut. At the time, he couldn't make sense of the jumbled family picture his grandfather painted. Now, he understands perfectly. Marty was rotten to the core, and a noxious family dynamic only exacerbated his sickness. The idea made Brad feel ill. How could he escape his family's inherent corruption? Was misery written into his DNA? _Did Lisa and I ever even stand a chance?_

Brad has to shake his head to ward off the despair that bubbles up. He wants to be more than just an Armstrong. He wants to be a big brother. He wants to save Lisa. 

_Lisa, Lisa, Lisa,_ he thought. _What should we do for your birthday party?_

Although the date was far away, Brad figured it was never too late to start planning. _What was I thinking about? Oh, who to invite. Right._ He racks his brain for more people; he wants this to be a big, fun celebration, something Lisa will remember for a long time in the future. She's only had him and Grandpa to rely on all her life, and Brad realizes more and more how fucked up they are, how poisonous the Armstrong family truly is. They need some fresh blood, some new faces. But who was trustworthy?

The best person he can think of is Rick, but he was countless miles away. Then again, it's been such a long time since they've seen each other. Four years ago, the old crew reunited when they all graduated from high school. It was incredible to see Rick, Sticky, and Cheeks again, and Brad smiled harder than he had in a very long time. The three had taken a road trip over to his town, and he was touched at their effort. They were even happy to see Lisa again. "Do you remember that time we all took care of her?" Cheeks had asked, his green eyes bright with happiness at the memory. "That was pretty fun. We had no clue what we were doing!"

"We had _some_ clue," Rick protested, smiling weakly.

"Yeah, she was in good hands," Sticky added.

Lisa didn't know them from Adam, and when Brad insisted she'd met them before, she looked at him like he had three heads. "I sure don't _remember_ them!"

"Well, to be fair, you were just a baby," Cheeks said, and that was the end of it.

It was crazy to think that four years had flown by. Now Brad was 22 and teaching martial arts to local preteens, while Rick and Cheeks were off in fancy office jobs, wearing pink suits and schmoozing customers. Rick just had a baby, last time they talked. It was bizarre imagining a miniature version of his best friend. _I guess that's what happens when you live so far away,_ he thought sadly. _You miss the important things._ Then, his mind perked up: _But there's no reason we can't get in touch again._

Soon Brad's phone was in his hand, and he was dialing his old friend's number. Maybe Rick could also be a good source of advice for his legal situation. He always seemed to know the answers to complicated problems like that. When Rick's cheerful voice filled his ears, Brad immediately relaxed and fell into the comfortable, close conversation between lifelong friends.

"Junior's already walking! Can you _believe_ that?" Rick was gushing. "He's just the cutest little boy. He looks just like me! Of course, a much tanner version, haha. But I swear, he's got my face! You should see him, Brad. The sweetest kid in the world, really."

"You should bring him over for Lisa's next birthday party," Brad said, smiling. "It's a long time away, but I wanted to give you some time to prepare."

"Aww, Lisa!" Brad could hear the smile in Rick's voice. "Man, it's been forever since I last saw her. How's she been?"

"... She's doing all right," Brad lied. If Rick could hear the drop in his tone, he didn't comment on it. Instead, he plunged into an enthusiastic update on their friends' lives. 

"You have to invite Sticky and Cheeks, too," he said. "I'm sure they'd love to come around to see you again. How cool that you've got your own dojo! Now you're teaching even more people the Armstrong style. How young are most of your students?"

"They're around 12 and 13. The same age you guys were," Brad said.

"Aw, that's a shame. I heard some studios will teach much younger kids. Junior would look so cute in a _gi_ , I think!" Rick laughed. 

"Heh, who knows? Maybe I'll add some new classes. Rick Jr. could be an inspiration," Brad joked. "But yeah, I'll be sure to invite the boys over, too. It would be great to have the old gang back together."

"Oh, and don't forget to invite Joan!" Rick said. "Last time we came over, she was pretty upset that she wasn't invited, too."

"Huh? But hasn't she been busy with university? There's no way she could've made the time to come," Brad responded. He hadn't spoken to her in years. Sometimes he wondered if she had already forgotten him. From Rick's account, she was in an endless rush of classes, conventions, speeches, and inventions. Surely she couldn't fit a little trip into her cluttered schedule. He didn't see the point in reaching out to her.

"Well, I mean, she _is_ really busy, but I'm not kidding you, Brad." His voice took on a more serious note. "She seemed genuinely hurt you didn't invite her last. She thinks you don't like her."

"What?" Brad blinked. "Where the hell did she get _that_ idea?"

"I mean, she told me you snapped at her last time she called," Rick said.

"I can't even remember the last time she called."

"It was a few years ago, I think," Rick said. "But she told me you yelled at her to stop calling so much because it was gumming up your voicemail. You should really give her a call. Even if she can't come, she'll appreciate the sentiment. She talks about you guys all the time, you know."

"All the time? How often do you see her?"

"We meet up every once in a while to grab breakfast." There was a smile in Rick's voice. "It's kinda nice. The four of us will meet up and we always get the same orders. It reminds me of when we were in high school and we all sat together at lunch."

"I hadn't realized you guys were that close." Brad didn't hide the sadness in his voice. Although he'd been sure to keep in close contact with his old friends, he never stopped to imagine what their school days were like without him. He always thought he was the glue keeping Joan to the group, so the fact that she stuck around the crew struck him as a surprise. From her complicated way of speaking and her obsession with science, he always imagined she would have run off to join the nerds or something like that. It was odd to imagine her as a grown-up, relaxing in a coffee booth with Rick, Sticky, and Cheeks. Whenever he thought of her, he saw that chubby, long-faced twelve-year-old with coke bottle glasses and an intense gleam in her eyes.

"Yeah," Rick said. "It's been nice. She finally graduated from university, and now she's pursuing her master's. It's pretty impressive. She's so busy that without those breakfasts, we'd probably never see her. Thank goodness for tradition, right?" When Brad didn't answer, he went on: "Anyway, I'll be sure to mark down Lisa's birthday in my calendar. Be sure to call the others, right?"

"Sure thing. Take care, Rick."

"Will do, friend-o! Right back atcha."

It was great to hear from Sticky and Cheeks again. Both of his childhood friends sounded upbeat and happy to hear from him. Cheeks was trying to make it as a comedian, but so far he was only booked for amateur nights and other, less prestigious events. Still, he was enjoying himself, and he spent his days working as a salesman for a women's shoe store. Cheeks always considered himself a ladies' man, and judging from his claims, he was doing especially well in his day job and was on the fast track to being promoted to manager. Despite that, he was holding out hope for his big break in the comedy scene. Brad wished him well and felt a rush of happiness when Cheeks promised to show up next year. "I'm looking forward to seeing you again, man! Maybe we'll get another spar in, for old times' sake?" Brad laughed at that.

His conversation with Sticky was a little less jovial. Of the three of Brad's oldest friends, Sticky was the most perceptive, and unlike Rick, he never held anything back. "Hey man, is something bothering you?" He asked within three minutes of their call. "You sound... heavy."

"Heavy?" Brad repeated.

"Yeah. Like something bad happened." He paused, and when Brad didn't speak, he asked, "Is it about Lisa?"

 _Jesus, how does he know?_ Brad wondered, but instead of answering, he said, "Hey, speaking of Lisa, she's got a birthday party I want to invite you to..." From there, they kept his conversation to safe topics, but Brad got the feeling that when Sticky came over, he would probably be able to piece the puzzle together. He could probably be a detective if he wanted to; he had eerie analytical skills. As it was, Sticky was perfectly content working as a ride operator for a local amusement park. 

"It's a lot more fun," Sticky explained. "Keeps me looking forward to every tomorrow, you know?"

It was a good thought that stuck in Brad's mind long after their call ended. Teaching the Armstrong style to his young students was a fun job that he always looked forward to. _Maybe it was more important to focus on things that bring you happiness than things that are "right,"_ he thought. _Justice would be "right."_ Fulfilling his own potential in a better paying job might, objectively, seem like a better way to spend his time. But Brad genuinely enjoyed the way his life was going, except for the horrifying saga he'd been through in the courts for the past few months. Learning about everything that happened to Lisa tore him up inside. _Why focus on revenge?_ He thought. _What's that old saying—two wrongs don't make a right?_

As Brad mulled over the philosophy of revenge versus fulfillment, he searched for Joan's phone number. If what Rick said was true, she would be happy to speak with him. He didn't remember her very well, except as a strangely earnest presence who stubbornly stuck by him for an intense year, but it might be nice to talk with her. Since he'd forgotten to ask Rick for legal advice, Joan would be the next best person to turn to; she had a knowledgeable head on her shoulders.

When he reached for the phone to call her, it started ringing of its own accord. Brad stared for the phone for a moment, wondering if Rick, Sticky, or Cheeks decided to call him back. _Maybe they forgot something?_ However, when he held the receiver to his ear, out came a voice he never thought he'd hear again.

"Bradley?"

_It couldn't be._

"Are you there?"

_There was no way._

"I can hear you breathing."

_I must be dreaming._

"Goddammit, answer me!"

"Dad?" Brad cursed himself for not hiding the tremor in his voice. He felt like a little kid again, standing flat against the wall with eyes full of fear. It was pathetic; even though his body was strong and toned, his mind was that of a trembling child. 

"Now you answer," Marty sneered. "Took long enough. Listen, son, I've gotta talk to you—"

"Son?" When Brad found his voice, he shouted into the phone. "You call me son after everything you've done?"

"Bradley!" Marty's voice was as hard as flint. "I don't have time to argue. I was talking with my lawyer, and he said there's a good chance I'm gonna be judged guilty. If I go to prison, there's no one to look after the house. I can't leave things unfinished. You need to get the family's things in order—"

"No."

_"What?"_

"No." Brad gripped the receiver so hard his fingers ached. "I don't need to do anything for you. I'm not your son."

Marty snickered, and the sound drew waves of goosebumps over Brad's skin. The arrogance. The _audacity._ The fact that Marty thought he could call him up — after a lifetime of beat downs, insults and pain—after traumatizing Lisa in their home—after branding her a liar in front of the court — Brad's mind went blank. "I will never help you."

"Really." There was a smile in Marty's voice, but Brad couldn't feel a whiff of humor. "Tell yourself that if it makes you feel better. But you're an Armstrong through and through. You've got my blood, Bradley. You'll always be my son."

The threat was like a sickening punch straight to the sternum. For a second, Brad forgot to breathe. Blankness consumed his mind, and his mouth said something he couldn't remember. Then Marty said, "You worthless piece of shit," and those were the last words he said, for Brad slammed his phone down and picked up his car keys.

 _What's there to lose?_ Roger whispered in his ear.

Carbon dioxide filled his puny garage.

 _It was all her fault,_ Marty murmured.

Brad's car tore into the street, nearly hitting an oncoming vehicle. He ignored the loud honks and jerked forwards, forcing his ratty old Jeep into a lurching speed.

 _Back in my day,_ Grandpa said, _men were expected to keep their women in line._

Marty lived almost a hundred miles away. Lisa had to spend endless hours on the bus to get there and back, but bus drivers have to follow speeding regulations, and Brad didn't give a shit.

 _I called Grandpa asking for help,_ Lisa cried, _but he never came._

He ground his teeth. Pushed the pedal to the floor and kicked up a dust storm behind his screeching tires.

Any other man would notice the tranquil blue skies, the fluffy white clouds winding above. Not Brad. To him, the earth was a bright, bloody red, the clouds twisting intestines that gobbled up the earth and hung like a noose above his head. He felt like a trapped animal, claustrophobic and terrified, ready to bite and claw and fight his way to freedom. _It's all his fault,_ Brad thought. _Marty's the reason I'm so fucked up._

It was Marty's fault Brad lost his cool and beat up a rich boy. It was Marty's fault Brad was quiet and withdrawn in school, why he struggled to open up to friends and form good relationships with girls who were dumb enough to pursue him romantically. It was Marty's fault Brad felt worthless, why he stiffened at sudden touches and stilled when he saw bright Hawaiian shirts at the store. It was Marty's fault Brad felt fundamentally wrong, forever behind his peers, why he never felt comfortable unless he was high off a cocktail of drugs.

All the way to his childhood home, Brad's heart felt heavy with regret. He mourned his younger self, the normal boy who could have been, and the fucked-up shell his father spit out. All of Grandpa's help could only do so much when he had a mom who killed herself and a dad who wished he were never born. They defined his early years. 

Time slipped by like sand between his fingers. Distance was nothing but a precursor to revenge; every minute only ripened the rage Brad would unleash upon a man who would never receive the punishment he deserved.

He deserved the electric chair.

What he would get is another ten years in prison. He'd probably get off early on good behavior again, the evil motherfucker.

Brad barely noticed his childhood home emerging over the hill; it was a shabby specter upon a bleak and isolated patch of land. _Instead of rotting in a cell, he's probably sitting on that fucking couch,_ Brad thought.

He was right.

When he kicked open the door and saw Marty, the world burned.

Brad pounced on the sleeping figure, threw blow after blow until his fingers were numb and his father was screaming like a stuck pig. Marty never saw it coming—was sleeping deeply when he _should_ have been tossing and turning from his sins—but he woke to a punch in the face and an encore of fists that broke his nose and stained his teeth scarlet.

Brad beat the monster, which leaped off the couch and scrambled to defend itself, but he fell to the floor with a thump. A half-asleep old man could barely defend himself against a fighter in his prime, inflamed and thoughtless and desperate to maim.

The thing on the floor wasn't a man. It was misshapen, a writhing, fleshy mess of swollen skin and seeping wounds and raw, raspy screams that rang through the rotted walls. Some sort of vile, worthless, joyless mutant. It was a pathetic sight, but some small part of Brad was happy. Now the outside matched the ugliness within.

He lifted a foot, and the creature flinched. Brad let the fear thicken, let the threat linger in the monster's mind. Then, he lowered his foot and left Marty to shake and wallow and stir in a pool of his worthless, poisonous, Armstrong blood.


	22. ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're here at the final chapter of part II. I hope you enjoy it!

_Someone I love will die today._

The thought snaps Edwin’s eyes open, and he freezes in his sweaty sheets, praying that this premonition came from a dream. As his heart hammers against his bony ribcage, he closes his eyes and remembers the last time he woke up with these words.

“It won’t happen again,” he says aloud, hoping to speak it into existence—yet the stone of fear in his gut only grows as he gets ready for the day.

Edwin checks Brad’s room before remembering his grandson moved out three years ago. “I’m so proud of you,” he said at the time, clapping Brad’s shoulder. Seeing his solemn grandson’s eyes light up was a gift; so often he was silent and still, afraid to show any semblance of weakness. It took him a while to get used to hugs, though he had stopped flinching long ago. Under Edwin’s guidance, he’d grown into a high-achieving man who looked up to his grandfather.

It was only recently that Brad’s eyes looked to him with anger and disappointment. “How could you have let Lisa down?” Edwin didn’t know what to say; excuses lingered on his tongue like ashes, so he swallowed down his pride and apologized.

Brad couldn’t accept it. He needed someone to blame, someone to lash out at, and Edwin left their conversation with shame curdling his stomach.

Now, a heavy stone of dread weighs down his gut. _Someone I love will die today._ That ugly promise makes him so sick he can barely swallow his coffee.

Lisa’s already awake now, brushing her teeth and humming a song under her breath. _Maybe everything will be fine, and my mind is playing tricks on me,_ Edwin tells himself. _This past year has taken a toll on us all._ He takes some antacids, but the feeling worsens as he reads the morning paper and drives Lisa to her new school.

Without safe topics like movies and music, their morning trip would be wordless. Lisa’s still too prickly to discuss her feelings about anything of substance, but Thomas the therapist tells Edwin to be patient. “The fact that she’s talking _at all_ is a sign of progress _,_ ” he had said a few weeks ago. It was the first time Edwin had ever met the man Lisa had been speaking to for months. He wasn’t impressed until Thomas revealed that he, too, was a martial artist.

“You’re pulling my leg,” Edwin had laughed, but Thomas listed out his skills with such knowledge and authority that his authenticity shone true.

Edwin always thought shrinks were thin-wristed rats who lived off books and knew nothing of a hard day’s work. Knowing that a psychiatrist could hold his own in a fistfight nearly tilted his worldview—and Thomas used this surprise to his advantage. “This is a difficult time for your whole family, I’m sure, not just Lisa,” he said. “At times like these, it’s important to have a sense of perspective to help you sort through everything. I have a friend who would love to talk with you—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Edwin cursed himself for getting into a conversation with Lisa’s shrink; of course, a man well-versed in psychology would twist a light-hearted conversation into an opportunity to make more money. They know the right things to say to manipulate people. _Serves me right for opening my mouth,_ he thought bitterly.

Still, the idea clung to his brain like a beehive on a tree. _Me? Go to a shrink?_ No Armstrong man has ever needed to talk about their problems with a psychologist, psychiatrist or any kind of fancy-pants doctor who spends all day blabbing about feelings. If Edwin “talked to somebody,” it would just open him up to more pain. No, he had to be strong and deal with his own problems. He had to support Lisa, not focus on himself and succumb to his own weakness.

When Edwin was a little boy, his father said that a man is the source of the family’s strength. No matter what happens, he must bear the brunt of life’s pain with a stiff upper lip, because his wife and children look to him for guidance.

“If you show even a crack in your resolve, the whole family will fall apart,” his father said. Edwin didn’t believe it at first, but then he waved goodbye at the train station as his father left to fight in the Great War. What returned was not the strong man he remembered, but rather a brittle shell that collapsed under the first sign of pressure. True to his warning, the Armstrong family collapsed without a strong foundation. Edwin fled his home in disgust, determined to make his own home in America.

 _No son of mine will be weak,_ he thought. _I’ll break the cycle and make sure my sons are happy and healthy—and strong enough to support their own kids, no matter what._ His children wouldn’t be left alone like he was, trapped in a leaking house with a broken father and an overworked mother who never smiled and never had anything to say. He would marry a woman who was kind and smart and hard-working, and they would create a prosperous future for the Armstrong family.

Then he fucked the pastor’s daughter, and it all went to shit.

Just thinking about the past pisses him off, so Edwin shakes the thoughts away and focuses on the future. He’s strong, he’s doing good for his grandchildren, and he doesn’t need a stinking shrink.

Still, he can’t deny that Lisa’s made progress since she started speaking to Thomas. Whether her change comes from the psychiatrist’s sofa or the passage of time is unclear, but he’s happy with the results either way. Lisa was damn near catatonic when the police plucked her from the forest, and it was only when those crazy bikers arrived that she started showing signs of life.

“You’ve been too damn hard on her,” that blue-haired guy told him—Dice, his name was, which was as ridiculous as his studded clothes and dye-job. Edwin wasn’t fond of the guy, but he and his gang were doing good, so he let them swing around. Without them, Lisa might never smile. “She’s not going to know you care about her if you don’t say it. Just try. It’s only three little words.” Dice had smirked. “How hard can it be?”

Damn hard at first. Edwin wasn’t raised to say “I love you” to anyone; you proved it through your actions. Words were worthless. But it hurt his pride to see Lisa happier in a stranger’s company than his own, so he chose to try anyway. The next day, when he dropped Lisa off at school, he told her “I love you” for the first time.

She didn’t say anything back. Maybe she hadn’t heard him. The next day, he said it again, and she asked if he was crazy. _I probably am,_ he thought bitterly, but he just smiled and said, “I mean it.” She looked alarmed and slammed the car door, scurrying away to school.

The third time, she gave him a cautious look, but nowadays, she says it back. The words tumble out hesitantly, but Edwin hopes that one day she’ll speak with certainty and hug him like she did when she was a little girl.

“Bye, Lisa,” he says, careful to use her name because she loathes being called ‘sweetheart’ or ‘honey.’ Saccharine nicknames remind her of Marty. “Have a good day.” Awkwardly, he adds: “I love you.”

Lisa gives him a small, jerky nod. “I—uh, love you too, grandpa. Bye.” She doesn’t return his smile as she hops out of his brown Ford and slings a backpack over her thin shoulders. Nobody greets her as she joins the rush of students entering her school; there are no friends calling her name or clapping her back. She blends into the crowd like a shadow, a dark splotch on the cheerful image of students heading to class.

The stone of dread grows in his gut. His mind assures him that he’s being crazy and nothing bad will happen—but the foreboding fear digs its claws into his shoulders.

He hasn't felt this way since the day his wife died.

 _Ex-wife,_ that is. He divorced Lisa a long time ago, back when Marty was a pimply, perverted teenager. After years of watching his son shadow Lisa like a sick puppy, watching her and touching her and trying to kiss her, Edwin had enough. The sick behavior stuck no matter how hard he tried to beat it away.

Eventually, he became sick and tired of screaming at them to stop. He was sick of Lisa crying and insisting that she didn’t do anything, denying what his own eyes saw. “He just needs your help,” she said. “He needs your guidance. He needs your understanding...”

Edwin tried. He gave his son all the help he needed, but black eyes and beatings and lectures on depravity did nothing. What else could he do but leave? When he handed her the divorce papers, Lisa screamed and sobbed and clung to his legs, begging for him to stay. 

His stomach had turned at the pathetic display. Stress and sin stretched his wife into a corpulent cow with big, stupid eyes and clinging hands, and her plain face turned ugly in her anguish. No matter how much she begged, he refused to budge. No longer would he be tied down by this woman. He gave it an honest shot; he tried to be a good man and marry her, but he could feel no fatherly loyalty to a family that refused to act with decency.

Finally, realization broke through, and Lisa’s long face went ghostly white; her fingers slackened, and he tore his legs away. Without a word, he slammed the door and shut her out for good.

In those days, divorce was a shameful thing, ungodly and rotten. People would look down on them, whisper and share rumors, but nothing they imagined could be as bad as the truth.

Then the courts put Marty with his mother for three seasons, and Edwin only got to see him in the summer. How was he supposed to help his son then? Now that Lisa and Marty were alone and he wasn't there to hit them when they misbehaved, what fucked up things were they doing? As far as Edwin was concerned, putting Marty with his mother was like throwing an alcoholic into a winery for most of the year and sending him into rehab for a week. Nonsensical. Idiotic. A waste of time. 

No matter how much Edwin tried to help his son, nothing changed. He started to dread summers when his stranger of a son came into his home and showered him with disrespect and insubordination. They argued until Marty stopped coming over in June; God knows what he was doing instead. Probably living with a friend. Edwin didn’t care enough to find out. He would never admit it, but he was relieved to know he didn’t have to look at his son’s face anymore.

Years passed without a word between them. Then, one day, Edwin woke up with a stone in his stomach, a mouth full of fear, and a scary message on his mind: _Someone I love will die today_. He spent the morning ignoring the dread, pushing it away, but when the sun was low in the sky and ready to die, the phone rang and Marty’s voice came through: "Mom's dead. It's all your fault." 

Edwin never loved Lisa. Theirs was a shotgun wedding because he was too dumb and horny to stay away from the pastor's daughter, and when she got pregnant, he had two choices: marry her or eat a bullet from her furious father. They were never supposed to get married, and the child they conceived in sin was wrapped in depravity. _The poor bastard never stood a chance, did he?_

Still, he couldn't stop the pang of regret that shot through his heart at the news. Lisa hadn’t been a good woman. She wasn't smart or strong or useful in any sense of the word. She didn’t know what to do with a clinging son who pawed at her body; she was like a stupid ostrich, ignoring the issue and shoving her head in the sand, hoping it was just a phase—but that only made Marty’s feelings fester and grow.

She was a weak, worthless, pathetic woman. But she didn't deserve to die with a rope around her neck, hanging from a backyard tree, suffocating and struggling and discovered by her screaming son. 

Maybe Marty had a point. Maybe Edwin _was_ at fault for his ex-wife’s death; blaming her for their son’s sexual depravity and calling her a perverted whore likely corroded her already-fragile mind. Maybe, if he had made amends, she wouldn’t have died hating herself. Maybe she wouldn’t have betrayed the Bible she was so devoted to and committed the sin of suicide.

But what was the point of obsessing over the past? Edwin refused to feel sorry for what he had or hadn’t done. He was an unwavering source of strength and guidance, but as his wife’s Bible said, “Do not give what is holy to the dogs; nor cast your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you in pieces.” Marriage taught him a lesson more important than his father’s. It taught him that the strongest man in the world can’t lead a family determined to self-destruct. A good man can’t turn water to wine or good to evil. That was the work of God, not man.

He had to save himself. He had to leave that sick, twisted situation.

Marty was wrong. It was not his fault. If Lisa’s only way to cope was with a noose, then she had no one but herself to blame.

So he held the phone to his ear and drank in the news of Lisa’s death. That morning, he’d woken up with an ugly sense of fear and a feeling of dread weighing down his entire body. Now he knew why, but he didn’t know what to say. All he knew was that there was no point in arguing over a dead body, so he hung up the phone and let his son grieve alone.

Once he heard of Lisa’s death, the stone of dread disappeared.

This morning it came back, and no matter how hard Edwin tries to stay calm, he's terrified of losing another family member. It twists his insides and makes him think of his wife. It’s not fair to link his granddaughter to her namesake; they’re as different as night and day. Lisa the second is strong and fierce and a spitfire to the bone—but she shares a name with the woman who died the last time he woke up feeling this way. 

The thought roots him to Lisa's school. He stays in his car long after she has left, after a hundred kids hop out of their parents' cars and scuttle to their classes. He wonders if this is the day Lisa dies, if she gets into a fight and her head cracks on the pavement or a girl shanks her or God knows what. She hasn't gotten into any fights in this new school—yet.

Could this be the day the ice breaks?

Or maybe it's Brad who is in danger. They haven't spoken since their fight.

Edwin stills. Brad has grown into a good man, but he lets cracks in his armor grow and grow until they split him apart like earthquakes, and Edwin’s worried that one day he’ll fall apart. Learning what happened to Lisa nearly ruined him.

 _Maybe it already has,_ an angry voice whispers in the back of his head, _and you’ve been too prideful to reach out and make sure he’s okay._

Dust kicks up from his tires as he zooms onto the road. After countless visits, he knows the way to Brad’s apartment by heart, and he knows that Brad keeps his key under a mat by the front door. Today, that welcome rug is askew, and the silver glint of the key sticks out from under the shoe-scuffed fabric.

 _What the hell is going on?_ Edwin wonders, and his face drops when he enters the apartment. It looks like a battleground: broken plates litter the floor, and there’s a hole in the wall beside a large smear of blood.

“Brad?” Anxiety twists his voice into a shrill cry. “Bradley? Where are you?”

Every room is empty, and the fear within him grows. He searches for signs of where Brad has gone. Did someone break in? Nothing is missing, it seems—except for Brad’s car keys, which always lay beside the fruit bowl and the voicemail box.

Upon further inspection, Edwin notices a beeping green light on the voicemail box, signifying a new message. Prying is impolite, and normally it’s beneath him, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so he presses the button, and out comes a voice that feels like poison in his ears. 

“Hey, Bradley,” the raspy voice of Marty says. “I’m sorry for that call earlier—I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I—It’s just…” Here his voice breaks, taking on a desperate edge: “Think what you want of me, but I can’t go back to prison. It was Hell, Bradley! _Hell!_ I can’t—I won't—I’m a _good person,_ and I mean what I said. You have my blood; you can’t pretend we’re so different. I need your help—I’ve gotta get my things in order. Maybe I can leave you kids with something, but I can’t…” He trails off, and Edwin wonders if the rest of the message will be pure static, but Marty whispers, “Please, call me back. And don’t be so angry. We should talk…one last time.”

Edwin’s blood freezes in his veins. The last time he saw Brad, he'd been so full of rage he bellowed at the mere mention of Marty’s name. He’d looked like a wild animal desperate to kill. He wasn’t in the right headspace for a normal conversation—especially not with his father.

“If I ever see him again, I’ll wring his neck,” Brad told him, trembling with rage. Edwin had stepped back, shocked by the display. Never before had he seen his grandson so overcome, so lost to his own emotions. “I’ll make him suffer for what he did.”

At the time, Edwin thought these were empty words to blow off steam. Passionate, but not prophetic. He thought Brad’s feelings would ebb with time, once Marty got convicted and Lisa got her justice. Now, he darts down the apartment complex stairs and jumps into his car, praying that he will make it in time.

* * *

Miles away, unbeknownst to Edwin, an Armstrong stands in an attic below a noose.

Smooth wood of a small stool presses against bare feet, and rough rope wraps around a trembling neck. Through the large window, an oak tree’s leaves cast speckled shadows across the dusty floor, which is laced with long-forgotten family trinkets.

There is a pile of photos that feature a woman whose face brings so much pain, she must be hidden away. Child-sized karate belts, from white to blue, hang haphazardly over a faded pink vanity with a broken mirror. An open box, falling apart from age, holds an eggshell-white wedding dress, as lacy and youthful as its blushing bride.

Old pain hides in every corner of this attic, but the golden glow of morning brings it all to light. The world wakes up just as a life falls asleep, its last sight being the peaceful blue sky and the green lands of Olathe.

 _What a beautiful place to die,_ they think.

* * *

A police car is following him.

Edwin doesn’t care.

He hasn’t done anything this reckless in decades, not since he was a young man, but Brad is more important to him than any amount of jail time. Brad is this family’s future, the perfect son, the child Edwin always imagined when he was a young, miserable child in Italy, neglected by his parents, and dreaming of a better life. Brad is his favorite grandchild, and he knows he’s not supposed to think this way, but he can’t deny that the idea of losing Brad nearly rips his heart from his chest.

 _Don’t die, don’t die,_ he prays, gripping the wheel in shriveled hands and pushing the gas pedal to the floor, heedless of the blaring sirens chasing him. They’re on a long stretch of desert highway, and there are too many trucks for the police car to drive beside him just yet. Edwin weaves in front of an enormous truck carrying countless loads of fruits and vegetables before weaving into the other lane.

Marty’s house is nearly a hundred miles away, and who knows how long ago Brad left? The blood on the wall looked fresh, and it was smeared in a wild way. _Is that the headspace Brad is in? Is he lost to himself, wild and violent?_

_Has he already killed Marty?_

Worst-case scenarios swirl in his brain so quickly that Edwin misses the truck slamming into his side. The world spins and screams around him, and all he feels is excruciating pain.

When the car finally stops, Edwin’s upside down, his bloody face strewn with glass shards and pressing into the pavement. The police siren blares behind him, and a voice calls out: “Are you alright? Sir, can you hear me?”

Edwin can’t speak; when he tries, he coughs out a mouthful of blood. He can’t see a thing, but he hears men grunting and cars screeching and time goes by so slowly it feels like a dream he once had when he was sinking through tar, suffocating and terrified and utterly helpless.

He’s being pulled out from the remnants of his car, but he collapses to the ground like a puppet without strings. Unable to move a muscle, Edwin can only pray. _Please, God, don't let this be for nothing. Please save my grandson—my granddaughter—make them okay. Don’t let me lose anyone else I love._

He can’t think about anything besides his family right now, his misunderstood, damaged Lisa and his strong and righteous Brad, and he prays that they won’t die today, that if anyone must die, please let it be him, _please, God, be merciful for once—_

Every limb in his body screams in pain when he’s thrown into an ambulance. What follows is a torturous day full of rushing nurses and screaming scanners and unbearable cacophony and intrusions from hospital workers. Cops ask him questions he can barely answer and he forgets where he is or whether he’s even alive or not.

“Please, tell me, where is my granddaughter? Where is my grandson?”

“What’s he trying to say? I can’t tell.”

“Ignore him and focus on the injury.”

Perhaps this is Hell. It feels like it when he’s woken up for the seventh time by a loud nurse. His body is broken, he can barely speak, and he still feels like someone he loves will die today.

It’s late at night when Lisa comes in, her hair frazzled and her eyes frightened. “Grandpa?” She squeaks. “What happened to you?”

He tries to reach out to her, but he’s too numb to move. “Lisa,” he tries to say, but it comes out as a hoarse groan. He feels like a monster, but Lisa runs to him and touches his frozen hand. Although he can’t feel it, he’s moved by the concern in his eyes, and a tear trickles down his bruised, swollen face.

“God, what happened to you? I got a call in the middle of class, and I heard you got into an accident—I was so scared I…I…” Lisa hasn’t cried since she was a little girl, at least not in front of him, but her walls crumble and she sobs beside his full body cast, covering her face with her fists and struggling to compose herself. Edwin can’t remember the last time her turquoise eyes looked at him with anything except resentment. _She really does love me,_ he realizes. He could laugh if he weren’t in so much pain—she always screamed about how much she hated him, but now she’s crying at the thought of losing him. _To think, I would have known this sooner if I’d just gotten into a car accident._

He can’t give her any comforting words; only his eyes can move, so he tries to crinkle his eyes to signify that he’s happy. After an eternity, she stops crying, and she holds his hand again. He can’t feel the wetness of her tears touching his bandages, but he glances down and sees the wet stain spreading. It doesn’t matter. He’s just glad she’s okay.

_Does that mean Brad is dead?_

Edwin closes his eyes, praying to God that he will be the one to die today. _Someone I love will die today. Please, God, don’t let it be one of my babies,_ he prays. If he can die with the knowledge that Brad is alive and Lisa loves him, he will die content. He’s lived a long, full life. He switched continents. He fought in a world war. He learned martial arts in a foreign country and shared the Armstrong style with countless pupils whose lives he impacted for the better. He raised Brad into a strong young man—and Lisa’s become strong, too, stronger than her namesake and stronger than he ever wanted to realize.

 _I’ve done wrong by her,_ he thinks. _If I survive this, I'll be the grandfather she deserves. I’ll turn a new leaf._

His pain is unbearable, and he swings between reality and dreams like a blurry pendulum. He dreams that Brad comes to visit, only he’s battered and bruised and crying uncontrollably. He dreams that Brad and Lisa embrace for the first time in years, and he dreams that he can talk again.

It takes an excruciating amount of effort, but he looks into Lisa’s eyes and speaks.

“I’m proud of you, Lisa.”

She trembles at the words and smiles at him, and for once it’s genuine instead of forced. “I love you, grandpa,” she whispers, and for once, he believes her.

Just like that, the stone of fear in his guts dissipates, even though his loved ones are here with him, safe and sound. He doesn’t understand why he woke up with this premonition, or if this is all a dream and he’ll wake up to tragedy, but he falls asleep with a smile on his face and the company of his two, precious grandchildren.

The last thought is, _If Brad and Lisa are okay, then who died today?_

* * *

Miles away, Marty Armstrong steps off a stool. It clatters beneath twitching feet. The dusty attic is soundless save for his choking, gasping cries. In a few moments, his body becomes as still as the stool, and the Armstrong home is swallowed by silence.

* * *

** END OF PART II  **

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a long time to write, mainly because Edwin is tricky character to pin down. He's a man born in the 1920s, and as such, his POV is notably different compared to the child narrators who have dominated his story. 
> 
> I wanted to depict Edwin as a man of his time: serious, emotionally reserved, convinced of his superiority and strong, but I also wanted him to be sympathetic. This dichotomy was not at all easy to write, so I spent the past few weeks writing and rewriting this chapter. I still don't consider it _perfect_ , but I hope it was satisfying to read.
> 
> Also -- what did you think of the final scene? From the start of this story, I had the vivid image of Marty hanging with a noose around his neck, instead of Lisa. I mentioned in chapter 12 that I feel sorry for the character of Lisa because she's defined solely by the worst aspects of her life. I felt like a good way to illustrate the butterfly effect was by taking that iconic image of Lisa and putting Marty in her place instead.
> 
> As always, I want to thank you for taking the time to read this story. I look forward to hearing your thoughts in the comments!


	23. Joan IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! So, I was very dissatisfied with this chapter, so I gave it a complete overhaul and completely rewrote it from the ground up. Originally, I was going to delete it and replace it with a new chapter, but I was so touched by some of the kind comments I got that I didn't want to delete it. (Thanks again!)
> 
> So, some aspects of this chapter will look familiar, but there's a lot of new stuff in here. Rest assured, I won't make a habit of giving chapters facelifts. It's just that this one bothered me a lot.
> 
> Also, good news: My boss finally stopped demanding I work 60-hour work weeks, so I have more time to write! Whoo! I'm hoping to make good use of this free time by writing more often, so you can expect to see some updates :)

The question came amid a slew of expected ones: What drew you to this major? “My excellent mentor,” she answered with a tight smile. What do you do all day? “Well, I study a lot, I experiment, and whenever I'm not in class, I'm working." No time for fun? "Well, sometimes I go to classes telling them about my major. It's a way to reel in newbies. Oh, and of course, I take a lot of tests.” And then, the last question: What kinds of tests?

Joan blinked, taken aback. "Why do you ask?"

"Why won't you answer?" Her cousin prodded. Again: "What kinds of tests?"

She looked at him, confused. He was no more than eight years old, his blue eyes too intense for someone his age, with a fluffy cloud of cherry hair. Perched in his papa's lap like a rooster on a barn, he squawked questions as if answers were his God-given rights. Joan has only known her young cousin for a day, but she's fond already. _Is this how adults felt when I was his age?_

So far she has adored every second of her home visit. Aunts, uncles, and cousins she hasn't seen for months wrap her in their arms and coo sweet words. Joan felt like an abandoned cup that had finally been picked up and polished after months of being kicked underfoot.

Home is the only place where she can sparkle in the spotlight instead of shrinking in her mentor's shadow. At her parents' crowded dinner table, surrounded by loving people who look like her, she has fielded countless questions with enthusiasm.

Then little cousin Jimmy opened his mouth.

By all accounts, his question shouldn't upset her. _What kinds of tests?_ But it brought back memories that made her mumble, "Please excuse me for a moment," before limping to the restroom, shutting the door, and falling to her knees. Bile shot out from the back of her throat and splattered into the toilet bowl.

Stars danced behind her eyes as she strained her twitching body. Slowly, they shifted into a constellation. The outline of a familiar face twinkled in her mind's eye. _Don't think of_ _it,_ she begged herself. _Think of anything else._

But all she could see was his head on a plate.

* * *

It began on an innocuous Friday morning. 

Joan stood at the front of a freshman biology class, pitching the university's newest major to undecided students. "Now, I know genetic engineering can sound a little scary! I mean, some would say what we do is straight out of a science fiction novel." 

Unimpressed, the students shifted in their seats, and tapping feet betrayed their eagerness to escape Joan's speech. By all accounts, she shouldn't have been hyper-aware of their sourness — she'd come in during office hours ahead of time, asking the professor for ten minutes at the beginning of class. He'd welcomed her eagerly, but the students were far more cynical. They saw her as a foreign intruder, a poor perception given the political climate. One wrong word from her, and they'd start fantasizing about tomato tossing.

"But this is ground-breaking work we're doing! And even if you have your heart set on another course, you can always pursue a double major. That's what I'm doing! When I'm finally finished with university, I'll leave with two degrees: one in pharmaceutical sciences and the other in genetic engineering. Imagine how proud you'll feel to leave with two degrees!"

The students gazed at her with pure apathy. Joan needed to do something dramatic to reel them in, so she slammed the blackboard for dramatic effect. She smirked at their collective flinches. It was good enough for her; shock was better than ennui.

"It's hard for me to express just how revolutionary our department is. The lead professor fought tooth and nail, all so _you_ had the opportunity to explore this amazing major. We're changing history. The things we do are pure magic. I mean, we're teaching fish to speak by tweaking their vocal cords. We're modifying their muscles and infusing chemicals to promote leg growth. This is unheard of in all the world!"

Now she had their attention. One boy in the back had stared out the window since the moment she walked in the room; now he watched her closely.

"And it's not just fish we're changing. We can genetically alter humans as well! Already we're performing clinical trials on eager volunteers. Ultimately, we hope to boost our soldiers' physiology. I'm talking 2020 eyesight, thicker muscle mass, taller, faster...you get the gist. We believe we can accomplish this in the next seven years. Then, we'll strengthen our soldiers at hitherto unthinkable speeds. Imagine how this could bolster national security! Now, I see your hand going up. Were you about to ask about steroids?" A nod. 

"Let me assure you that no drugs are involved whatsoever. I see a few grimaces in the audience, which is completely understandable — when you're changing the world, some folks are bound to be a bit turned off. At every stage in technological evolution, naysayers have tried — and failed — to halt the flow of progress."

A girl at the front blushed and looked at her desk. "All censure should be nipped in the bud," Joan’s mentor had taught her. "Painting the opposition as Luddites has been one of the best ways I've moved my ideas forward. Never underestimate the value of shame. _"_

"Now, think about it this way. We're not really adding anything unnatural — we're using chemicals that already exist in the human body. Don't think we're changing nature. In truth, we're just...building upon what's already there. For those of you who are still undecided, this is an incredible major to choose. And we're the only university that offers it in all of Olathe. This may change, though. Surely, other schools will want to offer their students the opportunity to improve the planet. That's why I'm so excited to talk to you today. You could be part of the rising tide of brilliant minds that sweeps away outdated practices... and ushers in a new era." She let the moment marinate before proceeding to her favorite part.

"Actually, I — oh, gosh, I shouldn't tell you this." She fluttered her eyelashes at the ground and put a hand to her chin like she was contemplating something dangerous. In a lower voice: "No, I should _not_ be telling you this." 

_Let that moment breathe. Let the mystery build._ Then: "Guys, I'm going to tell you something incredible!" The whole class stared at her now, not quite enthralled yet, but they would be soon. "We're in talks with the U.S. government right now. Nothing's set in stone yet, but they're incredibly interested in what we have to offer. I recently spoke at a national security conference, and a high-ranking officer—I can't say _who—_ for confidentiality reasons told me something you might find inconceivable." 

Here she leaned forward as if telling a conspiratorial secret. "He told us our work could even win the war."

With these words, the whole class was spellbound. One boy, in particular, seemed enraptured: a tall blond, as thickly muscled as a bull under his football jersey, dropped his jaw. This was the moment that made it all worth it; this was the moment Joan could really sell the major as a worthy goal to pursue. Once she gave the final part of her speech, that exciting finale she'd rehearsed three times in the mirror last night, today would go into the books as a rousing success.

She opened her mouth, and a loud knock came out. Then the door groaned, and a tall, reedy boy peeked his head in. He was a new coworker she hadn’t yet been introduced to, a vague, nameless blob at the edge of her vision. "Joan Chambers?"

"Yes." Joan's lips twitched downwards. "Can I help you?"

"You're needed in the medical wing."

"I'm sorry," she said, flabbergasted, "but I don't believe that's true. Actually, I'm in the middle of something. I'll be there in—" 

"It's urgent."

"So is this. I'll be there in a few minutes," she said, firmly. "I'm almost done here.

"Ma'am." His dark eyes widened in panic. "The Director specifically asked for you."

Joan stood up straighter as if jolted by lightning. "All right, thank you for letting me know." 

In mere seconds, her papers were organized, and her folder slipped under one arm while her thick brown purse nestled under the other. Flustered, she nodded to the professor and thanked him for his time. Since she couldn’t deliver that perfect finale, she waved and improvised: "As you can see, we take care of some serious business! I'm off to help my excellent team members. I hope to one day see your faces in our historic and innovative team!"

She said this last bit halfway out the door, for the messenger tugged on her arm like a dog tearing a chew toy from its owner's hands. Then she slid down the hallway after the speed-walking stranger. 

"Just _what_ is this urgent business I'm being called away to?" Frustration seeped through her civil facade. People in the hall didn't need to hear the tirade storming within her mind. And, to be fair, this boy wasn't to blame for interrupting her speech; if he was telling the truth, it was the director's fault. But she couldn't bite down the humiliation bubbling within her. _Right when I was getting to the good part!_ She seethed. _I should have left on a rousing note; instead, I spat out some cheap line that's not even remotely memorable. "We take care of some serious business?" What does that even mean?_

The dark-eyed student took her through a door, and they stepped out into fresh air. A cloudless, cerulean sky stretched out above them. "Sorry for interrupting your speech, but you're late for your course."

"What course?" Joan demanded. "I don't have any courses in today’s schedule. Why is the Director making me do this? And what did he tell you? Because he certainly didn't say anything to _me!"_

"I don't know what goes through his head. One minute I'm standing next to him, speaking with him and another professor about random things. The other guy mentions some facial anatomy refresher course for students who want to become plastic surgeons. The next thing I know, the Director’s telling me to fetch his star pupil." He frowned. "I tried to tell him I'm not an errand boy, but he insists. You know how he gets."

"I certainly do." Joan smiled grimly. "But I don't think this is _allowed._ I mean, I'm not part of the cosmetology department, and surely only students who are qualified can join—"

"There it is!" He hurried towards the health building and flew into the elevator. In the dark, cramped cell that lurched upwards, his voice fell to a mutter: "I completely agree. But who can say no to him? He gets to stomp around and play God. He sees all of us as rats scurrying around his feet."

"Surely the other professors could protest?"

"I guess he's friends with the person teaching this course. They made a special exception for you.” He shrugged and offered a sarcastic smile. “Don't you feel lucky?"

Joan’s lips formed a flat line. "Not quite."

The doors slid open, and he pulled her into the light. "So, you're signed up for the surgery in 213-L," he said, checking his golden, lemon-shaped wristwatch. It's the bare splotch of brightness on an otherwise dreary outfit of black pants and a grey button-up. "Okay, we made good time. You're just a few minutes late. Just head to the first empty table you find." The friendly thump he landed on her back nearly took the wind out of her. For a kid with a skinny wrist, he packed a wallop. "Remember, they already know you're coming. He-who-shall-not-be-named set up everything. You got this."

Before Joan could utter a single word of incredulity, the dark-haired guy scuttled off. _Is this really what my life has become?_ She wondered. _Strung around from place to place, and from task to task, like a marionette?_ But it was no time for philosophy; evidently, she had been assigned a surgery. Like a good little puppet, she stepped into the exam room.

A sea of disembodied heads welcomed her.

They sat in roasting pans atop folding utility tables that were been draped in lavender cloths. Each head rested center stage and face-up on a surgery station. There must have been 60 in total. Half of the heads in the room were still; the other half swiveled on their necks to gape at her, a latecomer to their class, an alien face.

“Yes, yes, welcome!” A cheery brunette at the front of the room waved her in. “Change into your scrubs and clean up, dear. We start in three minutes.”

There was a small anteroom near the front desk where the brown-haired lady stood. Joan stepped into the tiny area, where a crisp set of scrubs sat beside a sink. After shutting the door, Joan slipped into the proper clothes. The whole time she prepared, puzzle pieces shifted around her mind. Why would her mentor sign her up for a course on facelifts? Did he find her facial anatomy knowledge lacking? Was he preparing her for yet another dirty, degrading job that chafed at her morals?

 _Maybe he thinks I’ve been too uppity these past few days. It’s probably just another power play._ Dirt from her fingernails slithered down the drain, chased by a current of soapy seafoam. _He probably thought, “Looks like the little ant is once again suffering from delusions of grandeur. Let me be merciful and squash her pride, remind her that she’s only here because of my good graces.”_

As Joan wiped the wetness from her hand with a scratchy towel, she imagined his voice, as clear as day: “Remember your place, darling.”

There was only one open table in the exam room. Joan waded through the countless stations that lined the room in long, neat rows. At last, she reached the lone table, where a plump head laid, hidden beneath a white cloth. Each student around her unveiled his or her head, but Joan took her time. She was not eager to gaze upon a dead man’s face.

The head bulged underneath its cover; whoever donated their body to science must have been large and strong. Bloody scraps of neck skin overflowed into the pan. A haphazard hacking job. How long had it been since the head and body said goodbye?

It didn’t bother her; by now, she was used to gore. When the brunette at the front started her instructions, Joan lifted the cloth with ease. Her eyes never met the dead face; instead, she watched the instructor.

“Here’s what to do,” the brunette at the front said. She gave a quick overview of the layers of skin in the face, and Joan zoned out for a moment. She already know this, so she couldn't understand why her mentor would waste her time with a refresher course. Resentment festered within her. _I can’t believe he would just pluck me out of my life!_

All around her, students picked at the gleaming tools atop their tables. Joan fiddled with the knives that shone below the harsh, fluorescent lights.

 _If he dares to call me when I’m with my family tomorrow, I’m going to lose it._ She fumbled with the skin hook and eyed her classmates. 

“Please watch the screen closely.” Behind the instructor was an enormous monitor that gobbled up the front wall. Images played of the brunette's hand slicing through flesh, prodding at juicy layers of fat beneath. “See this technique? I want you to replicate it to the best of your ability.” Her small figure was engulfed by the scarlet carnage playing on the big screen.

 _I’m sick of taking this treatment. I do everything he says, yet I’m still knocked around!_ Joan squinted to see the teacher’s movements. She still hadn’t touched her head yet; first, she needed a solid plan. _Are they performing a nose job? A facelift?_ No one bothered to let her know. Perhaps if she’d been given the dignity of a heads-up, she wouldn’t be floundering in confusion.

 _But such is the director’s way, isn’t it?_ She thought. _He adores humbling people. Well, I’m sick of it. I’ve had it up to here with forced humility._

“Note the placement of the malar fat pad,” the proctor droned. _I don’t care if he outs me. I’m clean as a whistle. I’ve never done anything_ he _hasn’t done. If he tries to blackmail me, I’m taking him down, too._

Joan missed some of the teacher’s words; now, everyone was holding a different tool. _This is the last time he jerks me around like a ragdoll._ Joan stepped closer to the head with tools in hand. She’d been too distracted by her thoughts to start her work. 

_Why do I have to do this, anyway?_ A vindictive voice caressed her wounded pride. _I don’t have to even try that hard. So what if he strong-armed some staff members to wriggle me in here? I owe him nothing. He’s lucky I’m even here. I had every right to refuse that false God's call._

Rebellious glee washed over her. _This is the last time I do what he says. He’s got nothing to hold over me. Maybe I should fail on purpose, just to stick it to him!_

Then she looked at the face laying on the table and almost hurled. Black dots thrashed around the edges of her vision. When did she lose her balance? 

“Um, are you okay?”

Joan cleared her throat, clinging to the folded table. The student at the next station shot daggers with his eyes. 

“I — I’m sorry,” she mumbled, standing straight, fighting not to faint, to cry, to scream, to flee.

She looked at the head and her resolve crumbled like a house of cards. There would be no rebellion. She would do exactly what she was told. Eyes burning with unshed tears, Joan sliced her knife into that familiar face.

* * *

 _Don’t think of it._ She clung to the toilet bowl. Bile dribbled down her chin. _It wasn’t Him. You were mistaken. It wasn’t Him. It couldn’t be. He’s not even dead, so how could it be his head? He’s rotting in jail, and your mentor would never do that to you. He isn’t that cruel, and even if he were, how would he have found the resources to even get the head, to transfer it to that specific test room, to assign it just to me?_

It’s impossible.

She’s mistaken.

_It wasn’t Him._

“Joanie?” Her father knocked at the door. “You okay in there, champ?”

“I-I’m okay,” she rasped. “Just feeling a little sick.”

“Oh, honey! Was it something in the food? Lord, I hope we don’t all get food poisoning—”

“No, it’s last night’s dinner,” she said, coughing wetly into her hand. “I had some shrimp rice, forgot to put it in the fridge. When I got home I was so hungry…” Her voice is a garbled mix of strain and cheer. “I guess I gambled on some shrimp and lost. Now I’m paying for it.” 

She could tell he bought the lie by his scandalized gasp. “Joanie, you should know better than that!” 

“Sorry.” 

“That’s alright, hun. You should probably lie down for a bit.”

It’s good advice, so she cleaned her teeth so hard her bristles flattened. As a child, the slow walk upstairs took forever with her stubby legs. Since she shot up to six feet, she took mere seconds to ascend to the second floor. Friendly faces clustered the bonus room at the top of the stairs. Despite the gnawing tension in her gut, this is still a place of comfort. Here, she is loved; here, people bring her water when she's sick and pat her on the back. _I’m lucky for this life and I’m grateful,_ Joan reminded herself. _You’re home and you’re safe now._

Her room was the same as always: ivory clouds drifted across sky-blue wallpaper, and a thick stack of fiction books gobbled up her cluttered desk. Now was not the time for reading, though, for Joan's eyes stung and her head throbbed. Settling into her soft, fluffy bed, she took deep breaths.

“All is well and things will only get better,” she whispered into the darkness.

 _It’s the truth,_ she assures herself. _This has been an excellent day._

After all, today she met her baby brother.

* * *

The ride from university to her home should have taken half the day. For a safe driver, it would have been a slow, scenic drift from bustling cityscapes all the way to the rolling countryside, all over the course of around five hours. Yet whenever Joan was driving home, her foot stuck to the gas pedal like glue. There was a fear crouching deep within her, a frantic thought that if she didn’t drive as quickly as possible, a fish hook of obligation would shoot out from behind her, latch itself within her collar, and drag her back, kicking and screaming. Home was too tantalizing a destination to resist, so she drove like the devil was at her heels. Sure, people honked. Sure, she saw more middle fingers in a day that she had throughout the whole year.

But it was worth the love that welcomed her.

“Come here, you!” Mrs. Chambers’ booming voice echoed throughout the kitchen, drowning out the chatter from the front room. Behind her, a fragrant pot of beef stew simmered on the stove. Joan’s mother took two long strides forward and threw thick arms around her daughter. It was the first hug Joan had in months, and she relaxed into her mother’s touch, cushioned by soft, yellow kitchen mitts. 

“It’s been so long!” Joan’s mother gushed. “Oh, sweetie, how have you been? You look exhausted. Have you been getting enough sleep?”

“Well, I’ve been getting as much sleep as I can,” Joan said. “It’s hard to juggle the workload, between classes and long nights at the lab, you know?”

When they pulled away, Joan noticed her father sitting at the kitchen table with two of his sisters. Joan’s aunts look over and wave sweetly; one of them a toddler with intense eyes and fluffy red hair. The scowl on his face was matched only by the angry rooster cartoon on his shirt. “This is your little cousin Jimmy,” one of Joan’s aunts said. 

“Hello, Jimmy!” Joan said. She would have been disarmed by the boy’s intense gaze, if not for the squirming bundle in her father’s arms. 

“It sounds like those eggheads at the workplace are running you ragged,” he said by way of greeting. “Is your boss giving you a hard time again? I know he refused to give you the Fourth of July off. Don’t tell me that Pinocchio-lookin’ Looney Toon yelled at you again.”

“I’d rather not talk about it.” Joan nodded at the wriggling mass pushing against her father's chest. “Now, what could _that_ be?”

“It’s your little brother!” His gleaming smile stretches from ear to ear. Soon Joan felt her own lips twisting upwards as she held the baby close to her chest.

“Oh, he’s _beautiful_ ,” She breathed. His sweet, cherubic face was the picture of serenity, and when she caressed his cheek, he reached out to grip her finger with a tiny hand. “And his hair! What a gorgeous color!” Dark crimson curls framed his pale face, and when he opened his eyes, a pair of dark sapphires peered up at her. “Hi, honey. It’s so nice to meet you.”

Nobody expected little Hart’s arrival — especially not his parents, who thought they were too old for another child. Joan got the good news of his birth while away for the spring semester, and she was so shocked she struggled to focus and her work suffered. 

It was why her boss refused to give her time off in July; instead, she had to work through the Fourth of July while everyone else got to go home. “You’ll work overtime in order to earn your next holiday,” he had sneered. 

Whenever Joan recalls his ugly smile, fury blazes through her veins, but now that Hart’s in front of her, pure and sweet and achingly lovely, she couldn’t feel a lick of anger. All she felt was happiness, and her vision blurred behind her thick glasses. 

Mr. Chambers took back his son and gave Joan a one-armed hug. “It’s great to have you back, sweetie.” His voice softened: “I know you were bummed you couldn’t come back in July, but it’s for the best. This little man was awfully cranky when the fireworks went off.”

“Folks ’round here go absolutely bonkers,” her mother sighed. “But I swear, none of those fireworks were louder than Hart’s screams. He’s got quite a pair of lungs on him.”

“Maybe he’ll be an opera singer,” Joan joked. 

“Oh, yes.” Her father perked up. “We’ll have Hart, the famous opera singer, and Joan, the world-class scientist who saves the world.”

The three of them laughed, but Joan felt a stab of shame in her chest. _Don’t think about it,_ she chanted. _You’re gone now. You’re home._ Anxiety quickened her heartbeat, but a loud voice interrupted her thoughts before they could sour.

A bald man with sunglasses poked his head through the doorway. “Now that the prodigal daughter has arrived, are we good to go?” His bushy red eyebrows wiggled up and down. “The pastor’s gettin’ a bit tipsy.”

“Oh, my,” her mother murmured. “It’s too darn early for a man of God to be sloshing down the sauce.”

Everyone gathered shoulder-to-shoulder in the grassy backyard, listening to the pastor speak about kindness, holiness, and the importance of family. Normally, this ceremony would be held in the local church, but Joan’s parents are close friends with the pastor, and they managed to convince him to make a house trip. _Despite his tipsiness, it’s quite sweet of him to pay us a home visit for the special occasion,_ Joan thought. _Especially since his words are undercut by the clucking of chickens._

As her blue-eyed brother dipped below the tin bathtub’s water, the huge crowd of redheads erupted into cheers and shouts of “Hallelujah!” 

While Joan’s family was low in cash, they were rich in cheer, and the group clapped when Hart Chambers was named an official Christian. He let out a startled cry as the cool water touched his head. The loud, waning cry lowered to a gurgle as he cuddled up to his father, who patted him dry with a thick pink towel Joan had used since childhood. The family couldn’t help but titter at little Hart’s startled expression. His beautiful blue eyes fluttered in surprise. 

Once the main event is over, Joan’s family disperses into idle chatter. Bodies settled into the colorful plastic lawn chairs; strangers lounged by the small pool with a rock fountain. The air is thick with the easy comfort of familiarity. There are no pretenses with family; they’re unneeded when one has unconditional love.

Joan smiled as children crowded around the chicken coops, searching for eggs her parents may have missed. Red-headed people ambled through the overgrown lawn and carefully tiptoed around the flower garden. The air was fresh and crisp and full of promise, so Joan swallowed down the horror of yesterday and gave herself to the moment.

 _I am grateful. I am lucky to be here,_ she chanted in her mind, smiling at those around her. She forced herself to absorb every detail: The specks of hazel in her aunt’s eyes, the freckles dancing around her mother’s temples, the pleasant gurgle Hart made when he was full.

Eventually, she relaxed, giving in to the charm of country life. It was hard not to, with the sweetly attentive people all around her. Although they were surprised by her career choices, they were unconditionally supportive; she'd never known that kind of support in her past life, so she drank it up eagerly. Sitting down in the warmly lit kitchen, surrounded by smiling faces and chicken statues, she answered every question her family threw at her until the sun slipped from the sky and the world glowed in the orange, pink and gold hues of the late afternoon. 

What drew you to this major? they asked. What do you do all day? No time for fun? Joan answered everything in good cheer, smiling until her cheeks hurt. Then Jimmy asked his question, and The Head came rushing back.

* * *

Every day ended with a prayer.

Joan used to kneel before her bed, but now she lies upon the mattress with her eyes closed, every inch of her body as still as a corpse in a casket. “I want to thank you for this second chance," she whispered. "I hope you are proud of all I’ve accomplished, and I hope you’ll guide me towards greater success in the future.” 

It’s not the most romantic sentiment, but ever since Marty etched his wrath into her flesh, whimsy is hard to come by. A few years ago, she sat beside Rick in church when the pastor implored the congregation to pray. She locked her fingers together and pressed her hands against her forehead, whispering words of holiness and gratitude. When she lifted her eyes, she found Rick staring at her with a quizzical expression. 

“What? Is there something on my face?” She pushed her hair over her cheek, trying to hide whatever had him so disturbed.

“No, that’s not it at all,” he said. “It’s just that, the way you pray is...how should I put it...?”

“Out with it, bud.” She nudged a playful elbow into his side. “What’s wrong with the way I pray?”

“It’s kinda Spartan,” he said. “You sound like you’re on a business call.”

She let out a bark of laughter so loud heads swiveled in their direction. At first, the idea seemed like another one of Rick’s weird observations; over time, she has realized just how true it was.

Every night, she prayed in the same methodical way she brushed her teeth or washed her face. When she was younger, God’s gift of a second life seemed mystical. Now, she is less mystified by why it happened and more concerned with how she can make use of this second chance. She knew she had to stop the White Flash, for why else would God have sent her back with this knowledge? She had already saved Brad and Lisa; it was a difficult task, but she'd overcome every obstacle that stood between those precious children and a better life. Now she had to save Olathe, but this seemed impossible. After all, she didn't even know what caused the Flash in the first place. 

When her soul lingered in the afterlife and peered down at the world below, she was too absorbed by her family's legacy to notice much else. She watched Lisa, Brad and Marty drop like flies, and her entire being quivered with sympathy and a longing to intervene. The White Flash was just a catalyst that had sent Brad down his ruinous path. Now, it was a specter on the edge of her vision that made every morning feel like the dawn of the Day of Judgement.

Trying to stop the apocalypse was a Herculean task she didn't know she was capable of. How could she intervene? What could she do? Countless hours were wasted writing every detail she could recall, but this blueprint for the future became more uncertain now that she existed. Was her presence truly enough to divert disaster?

Of one thing she was certain: It all came back to Yado. She hated him, but she owed him. He had been the key to rescuing Brad and Lisa from their cruel fates, and it was thanks to him that they now lived normal carefree lives. But he was also the key to humanity's doom. 

"God, please send me your wisdom so I can know which path to take," she murmured into her clasped palms. "I hope I am not succumbing to the sin of pride by thinking I can change the future. I hope I am correct in thinking that you sent me here for this specific purpose. I pray that I will serve you well. Please, don't lead me into ruin."

The thought of failure shook Joan to her core, so she worked as hard as she could to wriggle her way into scientific projects, into meetings with politicians and secret agreements with the military. She shoved her foot in doors where she wasn't welcome and threw herself into every project, for she hoped to one day find that crack in the White Flash's foundation. One day, she hoped for an epiphany that would make her path clearer. For now, she lingered in the murky darkness of uncertainty, fighting the fear that all her efforts were worthless.

This dark line of thinking leads Joan down the path to despair, so she fought her hopelessness with the daily chore of praying. Getting in touch with God helped her focus on the tangible changes she had already made. Prayer maintained her sanity.

“Thanks to me, Brad and Lisa were saved. Thanks to me, they have lived normal, happy, healthy lives. Marty went to prison, _because of me._ He has never hurt Lisa, _because of me_. I saved her. I am the reason she’s lived a good life.”

The thought relaxed her. No matter what she did, or failed to do, that truth was unbreakable. She gifted Lisa with a wonderful life. Thanks to her, Lisa survived past the age of twelve. Thanks to her, Lisa has never known a day without love, never known the feeling of starving man-hands grasping at her flesh. Thanks to her, Lisa has never looked at a rope and imagined a necklace.

“I have already atoned for my sins,” Joan told herself. She turned on her side, hugged her knees to her chest. _I am home and I am safe._ She said it half a hundred times and then lost count. As the sun dropped below the horizon and bathed the world in the starry blue of twilight, Joan chanted these words until she believed them.

Tomorrow she will not wake up in her cluttered apartment on her thin mattress; tomorrow she will wake up in this same, sweet bed. Perhaps she will be woken up by her precocious cousins, peeking their cherubic faces over the bed and poking her in the side. “Come play with us, Aunt Joan!” They’ll say, and she’ll give a groggy smile and roll out to chase them around the chicken coop. She will have a golden weekend, and nothing will be able to corrupt it. Not even the memory of the familiar head on her surgery plate. Not even the Joy Lab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please let me know. I always enjoy reading comments.


	24. Lisa IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, and welcome to the newest chapter! I can't tell you how excited I am to get back to Lisa's POV. I hope you enjoy it, too!

Lisa thought she knew what powerlessness felt like. Then her strong, bold grandfather started to wither away, and a new sort of helplessness settled down upon her shoulders.

He’d always been old, that was true; the bones that wed his wrist to his knuckles bulged through sagging skin. The hands that patted her cheek or pulled her hair had always been wrinkled and gaunt. But they'd been strong, full of surprising force. They'd knocked students off their feet as he punched through training pads; they’d torn apart arguing boys before fights turned violent. Old age left most men frail, but Armstrongs were made of tougher stuff.

Then a semi-truck ripped Grandpa’s car in half, and now he cowered on death’s door.

“Will he be okay?” Lisa asked the nurse, a dark-haired man skimming through the papers on a clipboard.

“His bones will take a long time to heal,” the nurse said, and Lisa shook her head.

“No, I mean—he’s _sick_.” Grandpa’s eyes were a glassy brown, and every inhale was a pained rasp. The area around the eyes should have been be white. Instead, it was the unsettling shade of an unripe banana skin. “Why is he sick?”

The nurse scoffed. “Patients get sick all the time.”

“So, this is normal?” Hope sprang in her chest.

“Yep.” The nurse turned around and continued scratching his pen against paper. “People come in here and they’ll catch something from another patient.”

Still, Lisa couldn't halt the niggling nervousness eating away at her. Grandpa’s face was so sweaty that his gray hairs stuck to his sallow face. “So there’s no need to worry, right?”

“Didn’t say that,” the nurse responded. He moved around the bed, checking the equipment, dark eyes scanning everything except Grandpa’s face. _Look at him!_ Lisa wanted to cry. _He needs your help. Why aren’t you scared? Don’t you see what I see?_ “Now that he’s got a fever, his immune system is especially vulnerable. He’s at risk for catching something worse.”

“Like what?” She hated the way her voice lifts like a child’s. She was 12 years old now, on the brink of teenagehood. By now, her voice should be deeper. More authoritative. More worthy of being listened to.

“Pneumonia. Mononucleosis.” The nurse spoke casually, as if he were chatting about the weather. Before Lisa could speak, he glided out of the room, off to check someone else’s wires and ignore another relative's terror.

When Lisa first came to this hospital, she gasped, seized by wonder at the way it penetrated the skies and reflected the light of the sun. "I didn't know hospitals could be this tall!" Brad told her it was the best option within driving distance, that it was well worth the hour-long drive. Everyone said Grandpa was getting the best help he possibly could, that the workers were the best and the equipment was top-of-the-line.

Lisa wasn't sure, since she had nothing to compare it to. She couldn't recall the last time she was in a hospital. Doctor’s offices, sure. Medical examination rooms, yes. But this hospital was huge and alien, full of creepy beeping machines and an endless rush of apathetic people who barely noticed her. Here, she felt like a ghost.

“I hate this,” Lisa told Grandpa, but by now his eyes were sewn shut and his big, strong chest rattled with each breath. She held his hand, marveling at how such withered fingers could dwarf her hand. Then his chest stilled. “Grandpa? Are you okay?”

His dark eyes fluttered open. “I’m here,” he rasped, every word a labor. “You’re here.” He looked confused, like he only just noticed her. “How long have you been here?”

There was no clock in the room, so Lisa couldn't answer. Outside, the sun was high in the cloudless blue sky. Enough time has passed that her stomach rumbled every now and then. "I think it's been a while. We came here this morning." 

Grandpa’s eyes drifted around the room, searching for Brad. “He was here earlier. Don’t you remember?” Lisa urged. “He said ‘Hello,’ but you were so tired. Then you fell asleep.”

He sighed heavily. “What day is it?”

“Saturday.”

“You’ve got the weekend all to yourself, and you waste it on me?” His laugh corrupted into a rattling cough, and Lisa patted his arm. 

“It’s not wasted on you.”

“You gotta get some friends,” he said. Right as Lisa started to retort that she _does_ have friends—she has Dice and Lady Truck and even Bernie—he fell asleep. She hovered over his bed and waited for those glassy brown eyes to reopen, but he didn't stir.

Lisa sat back down in her seat and kicked her legs out of boredom. It had been a few hours since Brad left her alone, and she has long finished her homework for the weekend. She brought a book with her, but it turned out to be bad. The main character bored her to tears, and the storyline was as predictable as a blockbuster. After a few moments of watching his chest rise and fall, Lisa could no longer stand the sight of her strong grandfather so weak. She turned away and wandered over to the window.

Down below, tiny dots flowed down the streets like ants. People were so puny from the hospital’s seventh floor. She felt like a goddess peering down from her throne of clouds. Lady Lazarus laughed at the tiny, insignificant humans scuttling about their meaningless lives. They stepped in and out of apartment buildings, restaurants, and huge hotels that pierced the clouds. Across the bustling street, a long stretch of green park broke the grey city monotony. 

There was a museum, too, a few blocks away. A huge, colorful tarp hung over its front, a large advertisement of a muscular man with a fish head. “See the extraordinary fish-men who may save our country,” the heading declared. A caption in smaller text gave more detail: “From January to July, see the genetic link that could create super soldiers.” Lisa shook her head. She couldn't see the connection between fish and soldiers, but she has absorbed enough news to understand it’s some harebrained scheme the government is cooking up. 

Just this morning, she sat in the waiting room as TV anchors shared the story. “Top scientists say that a unique enzyme found in fish could be the secret to Olathe’s military defense,” a reporter said. Between her purple dress and the light blonde hair that curled up at the edges, she looked like the wife character in a 1960s sitcom. “I’m sure everyone at home is aware of the increasing international tension. Despite the global arms agreement forbidding the construction of nuclear warheads, the CIA has recently found footage of foreign countries creating their own nuclear plants. The agency is tight-lipped, but experts across the country warn that this could lead to a renewed arms race.”

“That’s right, Karen,” her co-host said, a dark-haired man in a navy blue suit. “And as you would imagine, the U.S. government is taking pains to prepare for the worst-case scenario: an all-out war.”

“Now, I know you’re wondering: ‘What exactly is the government doing? Are we creating warheads of our own?’” Karen said. “Well, we’ve reached out to the United States Department of Defense, but they gave us no comment. Good news, though: We did hear from the Army Medical Department, which told us we should feel safe because, quote, ‘The people are in good hands.’ I don’t know about that, Tom. When we opened up that letter in the studio, you had something to say, didn’t you?”

Tom laughed. “That’s right! I took one look and said, ‘That’s too vague to assure me. Heck, now I have even more questions than before!’ So I gave ’em a call and said, ‘Send us over someone who can give us more details. The people are nervous and we want some answers!’ And what happened the very next day? The U.S. Press Secretary goes live to announce a new biotech program!”

His co-host tittered, hiding her smile behind long nails with a French manicure. “Now, Tom, I don’t mean to sound conspiratorial here, but I think you may have pushed them to share their secret sooner than they would like.”

“Oh, really?” He teased. “You think li’l ol’ Tom Forknight on Channel 5 has the power to pressure the U.S. government?” 

“I think you’re capable of anything,” Karen cooed, squeezing his shoulder. _Am I crazy, or is there some romantic tension there?_ Lisa thought.

“Excuse me, guys,” a third voice chimed in off-camera. “I’d love to jump in here.”

“Oh, right!” Karen said. “Now, I’m sure a lot of our listeners may be confused about the biotech program, so we brought in an expert who can clear up those burning questions. I’m thrilled to welcome Dr. Nina Osohe to the show. Nina works with a new pharmaceutical company that’s just come on the scene. Why don’t you start off by telling us a little bit about yourself?”

The camera panned to a pretty Asian woman with lush black hair that flowed down her shoulders. When Lisa heard the word “doctor,” she imagined a stuffy man with thick glasses, plain clothing and a bland demeanor. This lady was the polar opposite: she wore a lacy white blouse beneath a pink blazer, and her rosy lips curved into a bright smile. "I’d love to. But first off, I’d just like to say: Thanks for having me." When she nodded at each of the hosts, her heart-shaped earrings sparkled under the studio lights. “I think there’s a lot of misinformation swirling around, so I’m happy to come in and ease everyone’s worries.”

She leaned back in her seat, a small stool before a colorful backdrop that read: “Channel 5 news: Bringing Olathe’s latest stories straight to you.” Despite the news reporters’ vivid clothes and the logo in the background, Dr. Osohe was the most eye-catching picture in the TV frame. As she straightened her posture, Tom and Karen leaned in, eager for her words.

“I’m the Director of Communications at Joy Corporation. We’re a pharmaceutical company that’s recently been founded by some of the brightest minds in science. Our goal is to create a world in which science can flourish without the restraints of modern politics.”

“Um…” Tom cut in. “I’m sorry, Nina. How do politics restrain science?”

“Call me Dr. Osohe, please.”

He leaned back, lifting his palms in surrender. “I apologize. Please, tell us more, Dr. Osohe.”

“Put simply, our CEO is overflowing with incredible ideas to improve this country. Unfortunately, there are many powerful lobbies that want to squash scientific progress. You see, certain ideas are bad for big business. For example, say we find a clean, sustainable source of energy. But then what happens to the gas companies? How will they make money with such stiff competition? They can’t have that, so they call the politicians whose campaigns they funded. Thus, they snip scientific progress in the bud. We stick to the old ways because that’s what's easiest for the powerful players behind the scene.” 

Tom opened his mouth for a question, but the doctor raised her voice. “That’s why the Joy Corporation is so incredible: We’re backed up by multiple politicians who have put their feet down and said, ‘Enough.’ Governor MacGavin himself cut the ribbon on our lab when we first opened. He swore his support for our cause. From what I’ve heard, he’s planning to give an interview to the _New York Times_ , from which we’ll soon see an article about the Joy Corporation. Who knows what he might do next? He might even give you two an interview!”

“My goodness!” Karen fanned herself. “I don’t think the great Governor MacGavin himself would have the time to come on the show.”

“You never know!” Tom chimed in. “If he’s as passionate about this as Nina—er, _Dr. Osohe_ says he is, we might hear from the big man himself.”

“We can only hope,” Karen sighed.

“Hope. What a good word,” Dr. Osohe went on. “It’s what our company is founded on. The hope that our country can move forward with logic and progress—instead of being held back by corruption and greed.” 

“So, we’ve talked a bit about politics,” Karen said. “Let’s move off that. Why don’t you tell me all about the great ideas you have in mind? I want to know about the exact type of ‘scientific progress’ you’re trying to make.” 

Dr. Osohe shifted in her seat, crossing her long, thin legs. “That’s an excellent question.” She smoothed down her pink pencil skirt. “Right now, we are developing new genetic modification techniques that we hope will boost our soldiers’ physical strength, should the worst-case scenario come to pass.”

“But what if it _doesn't come_ to pass?” Tom broke in. “All that money and effort would be for nothing!”

She threw a look at him. “I beg to differ. Ideally, the United States would like to avoid war, of course. If our diplomats are successful, we will not need to use our enhanced soldiers. But we will still have better soldiers than before. Progress is our main goal. If our services can help our country win—good. If they aren’t needed, then we’ve still improved an existing resource.”

Karen cleared her throat. “I’ve gotta ask a question that’s been burning in my mind, doctor. Where do fish come into this?”

The doctor’s eyes sparkled like she’d been looking forward to this question. When she opened up her mouth, however, not a single word made sense to Lisa. Dr. Osohe used advanced jargon and referred to scientific theories Lisa had never heard of. It was vaguely impressive scientific mumbo jumbo that made her even more confused than before. 

But Lisa was stuck in the waiting room and this was all she had to look at; otherwise, she’d have to talk to Brad, who was like a gruff stone wall nowadays. So Lisa watched as the pretty doctor went on, flipping her shining black hair over her shoulder. Her red, heart-shaped earrings swung at the movement. The reporters smiled and nodded and asked more questions, and Lisa couldn’t understand a word of it. _If Dr. Osohe didn’t go into science, she could have been a model,_ Lisa thought. _I wonder how I’d look in a pink blazer. Probably not as good. What does a blazer even feel like? I bet it makes you feel super important. I mean, I’ve only ever seen important people wear blazers._

“So, Dr. Osohe, let me cut to the heart of this,” Karen was saying. “I want to make it simple for our viewers. In order to create super soldiers, you guys have got to experiment on fish first?”

“Well…” The doctor grinned, pride etched across every inch of her pretty features.“We’re already in the middle of medical trials. If I had to sum up all of the work we’re doing in simple terms, I’d say this. A particular enzyme found only in fish could be the key that enables the development of super strength. We could unlock new, incredible superpowers that have only been possible within fiction.”

“Oh my stars!” Tom Forknight leaned back in his chair, dramatically dropping his jaw and slapping his palms on the table. “Are you telling me my childhood dream of becoming Superman could finally be true?”

Dr. Osohe threw her head back in laughter. “I’m not so sure about that,” she said. “We haven’t exactly unlocked the secrets to flight.”

Karen giggled, playfully swatting her co-host on the shoulder. “You heard it here, folks!” She declared. “After a few decades of scientific research, we may see some real-life superheroes fighting for our country. Of course, our soldiers are _already_ heroes. But thanks to the geniuses at the Joy Corporation, they’ll be one step closer to Superman.”

Lisa was watching the TV so closely she hadn’t heard the nurse until Brad elbowed her in the side. Then they were off to sit by Grandpa’s sickbed, and that room was too tense for any sort of chatter. Brad slipped away and promised to be back by the evening. When Lisa asked what he was doing, he threw her a terse look that said, _Get your eyes back to your notebook and don’t bother me._ Harsh looks came from him more often than ever before. Ever since she spoke in court, he was always angry with her, like he thinks she should have shut up instead of shaming the family. After that, he never looked at her with kindness.

He hated her.

A pigeon emerged from behind the giant hotel across the street. It soared through the air, wings stretched out, a brown splotch across the endless blue sky. As it approached the park, it shrank in size until it disappeared from Lisa's line of sight. It must have found a nice tree branch to sit on. She imagined the clear, fresh air of the park. It was a beautiful day, Grandpa was sleeping, and Brad wouldn’t be back for a while.

Plus, it had been a long time since she’d been alone in the wilderness. She didn't miss her runaway days—they were too hungry and desperate and full of fear—but she fondly remembered the time she first landed in the small town of Marble. Birdsong, green grass, and a lush blue creek stuffed with fish. Right after she stepped off the bus, she took in the taste of freedom. Over the next month, that taste turned to poison in her mouth, but in the beginning, it was sweet.

And, of course, she treasured her time with Dusty, although thinking of him still hurt. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t find him. 

_I won’t give up,_ she thought. When she first returned to Grandpa’s house, during those tense months with lawyers and officers and visits with Thomas, she’d tried. When the house was asleep, she sneaked down to the kitchen and turned on a table lamp by the window. Huddled in the cold corner, framed by shadows around her small circle of light, she flipped through “The Yellow Pages,” a heavy tome that listed local businesses by category. 

Dusty never told her the orphanage he was constantly running from, so she looked through the local businesses and tried to retrace their steps. They had gone to a Wally's restaurant—or rather, they sifted through its trash. But there were seven different Wally's restaurants in the city they wandered through. So she tried to find the gym they had gone to, but she couldn't remember its name, either. That whole time period was a strange, scary, somehow magical blur that left her void of details. So, when she tried to track down Dusty, she had no leads. On a lined sheet of paper, she wrote down every gym listed in the Yellow Pages. There were 21 in total, and so far she'd only called 13. 

“Hello,” the conversations typically went. “I’m trying to find a boy named Dusty Armstrong. Can you help me find him? He’s a tall, blond kid who showers in the gym sometimes.”

Most often, she’d hear negative answers from the other side of the line. “No clue who he is,” they’d say, or “We don’t let non-members shower here.” Then there were the angry receptionists who had a bad day and took it out on her. “Is this some kind of a prank?” A guy yelled at her once. “Get a life. That’s not even funny!”

A part of her wondered if she’d have better luck calling the police station. But what would she say? “I’m looking for a boy named Dustin. He runs away from the orphanage. Maybe you found him and brought him in?” But police officers were gruff, scary, and unforgiving. One of them had doubted her story when she first reported it, glaring at her with suspicion until his partner pulled him away.

Plus, she heard that if you dialed 911, they would come straight to your door, even if you didn’t have an emergency. Rumors said that a few years ago, a boy in her school prank called 911. The next day, officers escorted him off campus in handcuffs. Maybe it was an urban legend, but it made her nervous all the same, so she stuck with her painfully slow process. 

Lisa kept hoping to call the woman who had seen her and Dusty that day in the gym. Certainly, _she_ would remember Dusty, since she let him into the showers so often. But every time Lisa called up a gym, she got dead ends. It was exhausting. She wrote her lists of businesses to call and she scoured every single page of the thick book. 

Ever since she returned to Grandpa’s house, life was a fast-paced mess. She had to testify, transfer to a new school, take therapy, and try to understand why Brad didn’t like her anymore.

Throughout it all, there was only one constant: her search to find Dusty Armstrong.

* * *

“It’s like a mystery,” she told Bernie over the phone one night. “And all I’m unsolving is the disappointing truth that I’d make a lousy detective.”

“Is this Dusty guy really worth that much effort?” He huffed. “Didn’t he disappear on you?”

“He didn’t _disappear_. The cops got him!”

“How do you know that?”

“I just _do,_ okay? He wouldn’t abandon me.”

“How can you be sure? You only knew him for a few days.”

Lisa’s face warmed. “You wouldn’t understand,” she said indignantly. “When you’re trying to survive with somebody, you just get to know them really well. I know for a fact that he wouldn’t just leave me to the wolves. Not after what we went through together.”

After a long pause, Bernie sighed. “Okay. So let’s say he didn’t run off in the middle of the night. Maybe the police nabbed him before they got you. Does that mean he’s in jail now? What are you going to do—search every jail in the city? What if you don’t find anything? You gonna search every jail in the _state,_ too?”

“I don’t know! Why are you putting me on the spot?”

“I’m just looking out for you, Lisa.” His voice softened. “I mean, you look out for me. It’s the least I can do.”

She pursed her lips. “How do I look after you?”

“Those pictures you sent! Remember, with the instructions? I got ’em in the mail and I’ve been practicing, just like you said. I even showed my dad some kicks the other day. I caught him in a good mood and he actually smiled! If I’m lucky, I might even convince him to let me go to a dojo. Then I’ll be an expert, so you better watch out! I might get even better than you.” 

“Lucky you,” she drawled. Truthfully, she hadn’t set foot in a dojo for a year. Her moves were rusty and unrefined, so she fought like a wild animal. If Bernie actually started practicing, he’d probably be a better fighter than her in no time. Then what would they have to talk about? Would he even want to be her friend anymore, if she had nothing new to offer?

“I’m serious! I’m on your side here,” he went on. “I’m just worried. I think it’s a little weird that you’re so obsessed with this Dusty guy. I mean, you barely know him.” 

“What did you just say?” Her voice hitched, and Bernie jumped in before she could snap.

“Lisa, if you keep this up, you’re gonna be searching forever.”

“I…” She couldn’t think of the right word to say. Nothing could convince him. Anger and shame fluttered in her chest until she finally spat out: “By the way, minors can’t go to jail, you know. They go to a place called juvie.”

“Juvie?” He scoffed. “What the hell is that?”

A man’s rough voice cut into the call: “That’s where you’re gonna go if you keep actin’ a fool!” There was a hard smack—Bernie’s dad must have clipped him on the head—a hiss of pain and a door slam.

“Fucking _asshole_ ,” he hissed into Lisa’s ear.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course!” He said too quickly and too loudly to be anything but a lie. “It doesn’t hurt, you know. It’s just annoying.”

“I believe you.” She didn’t. “Uh, I just forgot. What were we talking about again?” 

“Whatever! Does it matter?” Startled, Lisa’s mouth snapped shut. He’d never spoken to her so harshly, never lost his temper at her. Unsure of what to say, Lisa held the hard receiver to her ear and listened to Bernie’s heavy breathing. After a few moments, his voice came out as a low, resentful grumble. “This Dusty guy must be really special for you to go to all that trouble for him.” 

“Oh, Bernie. I’d do the same for you.”

“Really?”

“Of course!” She promised. “All that and more.” 

He started to speak, but a crashing bang cut his words. “Goddammit, you asshole! You promised me you would make dinner tonight!” His mom yelled. “I walk into the kitchen and what do I see? Absolutely nothing!”

“Don’t use that tone of voice with me, you bitch!” The fury in his father’s voice seeped through the phone. Loud and scary. He sounded like M— _No_. _Don’t think about that._ Lisa took a deep breath and lowered the receiver to her knee, closing her eyes. Although she tried to ignore the words, they roared through the speaker and hit her, loud and clear. “You should be grateful I even offered! But, no, I can’t get five minutes to myself!”

“You told me it would be ready an hour ago!” The mother’s voice was a high, desperate screech. “All you ever do is lie to me! Don’t you ever get tired of it? Being a disappointment to everyone around you? Why is it so hard for you to do the bare fucking minimum?”

“You have no idea how hard I work for this family!” He screamed back. Slowly, the angry voices faded away, like clouds of smoke from a receding train. Stomping through the house, their screams burned into white noise at the edge of her ears. Lisa let the silence breathe, long and slow. She craned her ear for a sound: she expected a sniffle, maybe some angry curses of his own. Eventually, she wondered if he’d hung up on her. She wanted to say something, even “Are you there?” but she couldn’t find the words to say. Her throat closed in on itself.

Then came a voice so quiet and soft Lisa thought she imagined it. “Are you still there?” Bernie whispered, and Lisa had to take a deep breath before spitting out a yes. He sighed deeply. “Oh. Good. I thought you hung up.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Most people do.” 

“What people?”

“You know.” A rustling sound, like he was waving his hand. “Friends. Anyone I try to hang out with. I can’t have people over, but I still like to talk. I mean, that’s what normal kids do, right? But they always do this. Every time I make a friend, my parents get like this and it freaks people out. They don’t talk to me again when that happens.”

He sounded so defeated. Lisa wanted her bright, cheerful boy again. “You don’t have to worry about me,” she said loudly. “I’ve got your back.”

“You do?” From the way he sounded, she imagined him furrowing his brow, his blue eyes doubtful beneath those thick golden bangs.

“Of course, Bern. Friends stay together.”

There was the sniffle she expected earlier. “Thanks, Lisa. Really.”

“Of course.”

He went quiet for a long time after that. Then: “Why can’t more people be like you?”

A laugh tore out of Lisa’s chest. “’Cause then the world would be on fire!”

“No it wouldn’t,” he snickered.

“Yes, it would! I’m serious, Bernie. There would be chaos in the streets. Total mayhem. Pandemonium!” She paused to think of new synonyms for anarchy.

“I’m imagining it now. Fire in the streets.” There was a smile in Bernie’s voice. “And you and I would just be standing in the middle of it.”

“All calm and smiling while the flames burned all around us?” Lisa joked, but Bernie sounded serious when he spoke next.

“Yep,” he said. “Hell, we’d be holding the matches.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, I'd love it if you left a comment. It makes me so happy to hear your thoughts and reactions!


	25. Lisa X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Hope you have a wonderful 2021. Here's a slightly lighter chapter for Lisa. I hope you enjoy it!

For all of Bernie's sweetness and loyalty, he was dead wrong when it came to Dusty. Then again, she supposed it was only fair; sometimes you had to meet a person to understand how truly special they were. So she swallowed her best friend's complaints and bore his naysaying. When their call was over, she resumed her self-assigned research project.

She understood how an outsider could think of her as ridiculous, but she treasured those days she had slept beneath the twinkling sounds to the chorus of crickets. They were sweet on her tongue, but maybe that was only because those days were right after the horrible time she had spent alone in the woods. Before she stumbled into Dusty's campsite, she had been terrified. Haunted by visions of her hanging grandmother and her faceless mom, Lisa almost went mad. Hunger and fear would have ripped her apart if not for her unlikely friend. When she traveled with Dusty, his presence swept away the grisly delusions conjured up by her lonely mind.

Now, the ugliness was starting to creep back. When Lisa closed her eyes and sat in Grandpa's big, empty house, she felt Marty's presence. Since Brad slept in his own apartment, she was the only warm body that occupied the house at night. But she wasn't alone. Spiders with her father's face crawled in the edges of her vision. Scuttling up the walls, they disappeared into the corners of the room whenever she turned to face them head-on. Come morning, the spiders disappeared like mist in the sun.

Maybe the loneliness was driving her insane. Even though Brad drove her to school, they rarely spoke over the loud rock music buzzing from the radio. In each class, Lisa was a stone, too afraid to talk to anybody. She learned her lesson from her last school: Spend too much time talking, and people will figure out who you really are. Each word is a potential bullet someone can use against you. A simple compliment to a boy—"Hey, your shoes look cool"—could get you slammed into the lockers after class. "Why are you flirting with my boyfriend? Huh?"

Now, whenever boys approached her, she turned her back. She couldn't seem too friendly, because then she might get called a whore. To girls, she was a bit more patient. She’d give them a few seconds of chatter before looking down or walking away mid-sentence. They thought she was rude, but she just didn’t want to give them ammunition. Thomas warned her not to be too paranoid, but she preferred safe isolation to the alternative. It was hard enough transferring to a new school; it could be even worse if she started getting into fights again.

Bernie was her only light. They talked on the phone as often as they could, but sometimes they clashed. One day, he would be bubbly and easy to please; the next, he turned prickly and sullen. She wanted another friend, but it had to be someone who didn’t go to her school. She couldn’t run the risk of being chased out again. 

Dusty was the only other friend she’d ever had, and she desperately wanted to meet him again. So she kept trying, but all her efforts amounted to an endless cycle of frustration. She searched through books and squinted and scribbled down information and called countless businesses, only to bang her head at the futility of it all. 

It was far too much for one single person, so one day after English class, she asked her teacher for help. She was vague in her wording, only mentioning that she was struggling to find a building through the Yellow Pages.

“What kind of building?” Mr. Collins asked hesitantly. She was a silent and surly student, loathe to be called upon and ready to let her reluctance show. Maybe he thought she was going to snarl some insult at any moment.

“An orphanage,” she told him.

“Wait, you’ve been looking for an orphanage through the Yellow Pages?” He blinked. “Lisa, that’s just a list of _businesses._ If you want to find a list of governmental buildings, you’ll need the White Pages.”

She could have slapped herself on the forehead. When she went home, she found no copy of the White Pages in Grandpa’s bookshelves, so the next day at lunch she searched the school library for a copy. Then the whole painful process reset itself: Lisa scoured every single page, but couldn’t find any leads. There were no orphanages listed in the White Pages, so she went to Mr. Collins again for help.

“In that case, you could try to look up birth records,” he suggested. “When someone’s adopted, there’s a note that mentions which orphanage they were sent to...I think.”

“Can I find birth records in our library?”

Mr. Collins scoffed. “Absolutely not. You think a public school has access to that kind of information? The government’s not giving us any more pennies than it absolutely has to. _Pfft!_ A school...having those kinds of resources…as if!”

“Well, where can I find them?”

“You can find birth records in the hospital...I think.” Lisa wanted to ask him more, but Mr. Collins shooed her away. “Now, please leave. I’ve got to get ready for my next class.” 

_Well, now’s as good a time as any,_ Lisa thought as she walked out of Grandpa's room to visit the park. She had ample time before Brad got back. _If_ Brad got back. She was afraid that one day he would forget her. He was starting to show up late when he picked her up from school. If she voiced a complaint, he would silence her with a surly look.

On her way to the elevator, Lisa found a woman sitting on the desk. "Excuse me," she said. "Where are the birth records?"

“Why do you ask?” The receptionist squinted over the desk, clutching a cup of blueberry yogurt to her chest.

“I want to see when my friend was born.”

“Why?”

Lisa took a deep breath to calm herself. Incessant questions were infuriating. They took her back to her time in custody, when CPS agents interrogated her on every aspect of her time with dad. _Did he do this? Why? Did he do that? Why? How did you feel? Why? Where did he touch you? Why? How did it make you feel?_

Sweat dripped down her neck. Lisa stammered out a lie she hoped would bring her closer to the truth. “I, uh... forgot my friend’s birthday and I want to get him a gift on time. So that’s why...I need to see his birth certificate.”

The lady slurped down a spoonful of her yogurt. “That’s very cute, but you can’t access that type of information.” She shook her head of curly hair. “It’s not for you.”

 _Who are you to decide, you pompous bitch?_ Lisa wanted to spit at her. But that would squander the opportunity to find Dusty, so she swallowed her pride. “In that case,” she asked sweetly, “where can I find that information?”

"You'd have to go to the County Clerk," the receptionist said. "But don't waste the time. You've got to be authorized to look through birth records." 

"Well, how do I get authorized?" 

The woman snickered. "By becoming an attorney, for one! Or a member of a law enforcement agency...or a parent. Or a licensed adoption agent. You're a bit young for that, kiddo.” Blue yogurt dribbled down the side of her mouth. “Anyway, sweetie, just put on your big girl pants and take responsibility. Walk up to your friend and tell him you forgot his birthday. Don’t waste your time looking through dusty papers!”

Lisa stomped away because if she stayed still for one more minute she was going to explode. Condescending strangers triggered her like nothing else. If that bitch had just answered Lisa’s original question without needling her with _why-why-why_ s, Lisa wouldn’t have had to lie. And then she got mocked over the lie she was forced to tell? If she’d just been straightforward and told her the truth off the bat, Lisa wouldn’t have wasted her time. But, no, some worker was feeling powerless and decided to lord herself over a little girl. _Disgusting._

She needed some fresh air. Mashed the elevator’s down arrow. When the doors swung open, a lone man stared at her. Lisa stiffened. Imagined herself alone with him in that tight space. Suddenly, she had trouble breathing.

He frowned. “You coming in or not?” 

“N-no. Sorry.” Above his head, fat spiders twitched around the lights. “I, uh, pressed the wrong button.”

He rolled his eyes and closed the door. Lisa held herself and breathed, _one-two-three,_ just like Thomas taught her. 

“Just be in the moment and let your emotions flow through you,” Thomas hummed in the back of her mind. “Don’t fight them. That’s the only way you can move on.”

After a few moments, she felt better. Not as angry at the receptionist. Not as terrified over what might happen to Grandpa. The next time the elevator opened, it was blessedly empty.

Alone in the slowly descending cable, she continued her breathing exercises. Tried to ignore the spiders' whispering legs as they crawled over her head. _I can’t believe Mr. Collins sent me in the wrong direction,_ she thought. _You can’t trust anybody._

The elevator dropped down two floors before it ground to a halt. The doors opened on level three, where a tall, muscular man waited for the ground floor. At once, Lisa's heart hammered in her chest at the thought of being alone in a tight space with him. _It's okay,_ she thought. _Not every man is like dad. You can do this._

She couldn't do it. Quickly, she stepped out of the elevator just as the man entered, their bodies like two ships passing in the night. Above her head, a spider scuttled out of the elevator, chasing her into the new level. _No._ Despite herself, Lisa mustered the courage to throw back a polite nod at the man. He nodded back, and the spider returned to the elevator cable. The doors slid shut, taking it far away. 

Lisa sighed deeply, holding a hand to her heart. Everything had changed — but she still felt like that frightened runaway, constantly looking over her shoulder, guilty for the crime of living. When strange men looked at her for too long, she felt their eyes and imagined their hands stroking her skin and she rippled in revulsion.

“Well, hello there!" A chipper voice broke her thoughts. "I haven’t seen your face before.”

The receptionist waved at her with a bright smile, and Lisa lifted her arm to return the gesture, but her arm froze once she noticed the beauty surrounding her. Bright blue birds decorated the ground beneath her feet, flying through the white tiles towards the long hallways to the left and right. Stained glass butterflies adorned the walls, their dazzling orange and black wings frozen in mid-flight. The chubby receptionist with honey-colored hair sat before an ocean of childish drawings pinned to a cork wall. Chaotic squiggles depicted families, misshapen animals, and dancing fairies in all colors of the rainbow. 

"Which one is yours?" The receptionist asked, following Lisa's gaze.

“None.”

“What? Really?” The woman’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “All of our guests get their drawings pinned up.”

 _Guests…? Oh._ “I’m not a patient,” Lisa said. “I’m a visitor.”

The woman gasped. “Oh my goodness! Are you here for Gale?” No, Lisa is about to say, but the woman smiled from ear to ear. “I can’t _tell_ you how happy I am to see you! She’s been waiting for you all day. What took you so long? She keeps leaving her room and asking me, ‘Is she here yet?’ or 'Where's my friend?' and I keep having to let the poor little baby down. Why, it’s been breaking my little heart all day long! Now that you’re here, I can finally patch them little heart-pieces together—”

“You’ve got the wrong person.”

The woman didn't seem to hear her; she jumped to her feet and slid closer. “Honey, don’t feel guilty! We’re all a little late sometimes.”

“I’m not late.” The woman stepped uncomfortably close; Lisa backed away. “I’m not—I don’t even _know_ anybody named Gale!”

“What?” The woman's face fell. “But—you…” Then a flash of suspicion lit her features. “Wait a minute...are you lying to me?”

“No.” Lisa’s back collided with the elevator door.

“All right, fine. I’m just so....disappointed.” Her crestfallen gaze slumped to the floor, where dark blue cranes flew through ivory clouds. “That poor little girl deserves a friend to hang out with. I can't believe her friend would lie and leave her alone..."

A quiet moment passed, and Lisa lifted her finger towards the down button. Then, the receptionist whipped her head up, like a marionette jerking awake for its master's hands. “Hey, hey!” She fixed her intense gaze on Lisa once again. “Won’t you do me a favor? I can tell you’re a good girl. Isn’t that true? You like helping people?”

Lisa cringed, but the woman plunged on: “Listen, honey. We’ve got a very sick and lonely girl here. Nobody ever comes to visit her. All she wants is a friend to play with. All day she’s been expecting a girl from her school to pop in...but nobody ever showed up. Isn’t that so _cruel?_ But now that you’re here, it’s like a shining light! Wouldn’t you like to make a new friend? You should pop in and give her a visit! It’ll make her day, and you’ll be doing a good deed!”

Lisa poked the elevator’s down button. “No thanks.” 

“ _Whaaaat?_ ” The woman wailed. “Don’t you care about her?” 

“I don’t even know her.”

“Then _get_ to know her, please! Just pop in and say ‘hi!’” She stepped closer, blue eyes wet and pleading. “I promise you, it will only take a minute! Oh, won’t you please go in and play with her a bit? She’s so lonely...”

Lisa violently jammed the elevator button. “Sorry, but I gotta go somewhere.” Ten mashes later, the doors were still immobile. Frightened and overwhelmed, Lisa's stomach let out an enormous belch of hunger. It would have unnerved any normal person, but the bizarre nurse lit up in excitement.

“What about this? I’ll buy you lunch! The hospital food is really good—that’s why we don’t give free meals to visitors. It’s so good you gotta pay for it.” She giggled. “Come on! I’ll buy you some food if you just do this good deed!”

Lisa’s finger lifted from its fruitless assault on the down button. It was a good idea; she had been hungry for a while. Brad hadn’t thought to bring any food. As she paused to think, the blonde pounced: “What would you like, sweetheart? I’ll get you a nice chicken sandwich. Maybe some potato salad—that’s my favorite. I’ll even get you a can of Cocola Cola, too—how’s that sound?”

It sounded pretty good, but Lisa’s fighting lessons weren’t the only gift she got from her Grandpa. He also taught her how to barter. She leaned back, crossed her arms, and fixed the overbearing receptionist with an unimpressed look. “I also want some chocolate.”

“Done.” 

Lisa nodded. Mulled it over. “So, you just want me to say hi to this girl?”

“Well, talk to her a bit! Play with her. Just...make friends with her. Please.” The woman’s voice dropped. “She’s alone all the time. This could make her really happy.”

“All right,” Lisa said. “Where should I meet her?”

The nurse pointed down a long hall. “Head down there and take a right. Then take another right, then a left. It’s the last door on the left. If you get confused, just look for the signs.”

“Wait, what?”

“Thank you _so_ much for doing this, sweetheart!” The lady danced around Lisa. After one quick jab to the down button, the elevator doors immediately swung open. Lisa’s eye twitched in jealousy, but the cheery nurse didn't seem to notice. She blinked out of sight with a triumphant smile, looking for all the world like the cat that ate the canary.

Lisa stroked the back of her short, messy bob and sighed. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to talk to someone new. After all, she wanted a friend who didn't go to her school—maybe this could be her perfect opportunity. And, as the lady said, she would be doing a good deed. Then again, her surprise meeting would likely result in disappointment. If Lisa were in the little girl's shoes—Gale, the nurse called her—she wouldn't be too happy if a stranger showed up in place of a friend. Surely Gale would greet her with a grimace. "Um, who are you?" Lisa would probably be her usual surly, creepy, silent self, and Gale's day would get even worse. _That nurse must be out of her damn mind if she thinks I could ever cheer up a stranger,_ Lisa thought sourly.

Like a daisy popping out of a sidewalk, a cheery thought brightened her mind. _Or maybe that nurse is right and you could make a new friend_ , it whispered. _You never know until you try!_

It was a tempting thought. Lisa always fought the feeling that she was a terrible, ugly, worthless person. Surely a horrible waste of human life wouldn’t go out of its way to help someone out. This could be proof of the goodness she wasn't sure she had.

When Lisa approached the corridor, she saw a large sign posted on the wall. VERY IMPORTANT AHEAD! it promised in red marker. At the bottom of the sign, a cursive signature revealed that its writer was Gale, who had a penchant for smiley faces. It seemed sweet, and Lisa walked ahead. She counted 12 doors before the next sign showed up. YOU’RE ALMOST HERE! JUST TURN RIGHT FOR THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE _,_ Gale’s sign read, now in electric blue marker. Lisa dutifully headed to the right. _When will this room show up?_ By now, she lost count of how many doors she walked past. Throughout it all, the unsettling song of sick children seeped through the walls: wet coughs, secretive whispers, and crackling TVs. Hopefully, the room at the end of the journey would be worth it.

HEY GIRL! Gale's next sign was written in golden marker, which was nearly unintelligible against the white poster paper. With squinted eyes, Lisa read the directions: TAKE ANOTHER RIGHT FOR TRUE PARADISE. Lisa turned into yet another long, dreary corridor of endless rooms. _Why did I even agree to this?_ Lisa wondered as she walked. And walked. And walked some more.

 _It's because I'm a good_ _person,_ she reminded herself. By now, her feet were starting to hurt. Violet words swirled around Gale's next sign, spelling out a cheerful message: TURN LEFT TO FIND THE COOLEST GIRL IN THE WORLD! With a heavy sigh, Lisa forced her aching feet forward and lumbered down the final hallway. Then, at long last, she saw the final poster, this time written in pink marker. An eerie smile stretched beside Gale's cursive signature. HERE IS MY ROOM. A thick arrow pointed to the left. NO TRICKS THIS TIME, I PROMISE.

Lisa approached the large white door, turned the handle, and stepped in.

A torrent of water splashed down upon her. It spat down her face and stained her white shirt. _Clank!_ went the bucket as it cracked against her head and bounced against the floor.

“Haha! That's what you get!” A girl’s voice cried, followed by maniacal laughter.

Water dripped down Lisa’s eyelashes, and she coughed up a river. There must have been murder in her eyes, for Gale slowly lowered her middle finger. Wide, almond-shaped eyes in a pretty swirl of green and brown blinked at her.

“I can see why your friend chose not to visit you,” Lisa said. Twirling around, she began the long march back. 

“Wait!” The girl wailed. “I thought you were someone else!”

“And I thought you were a poor little sick girl who needed a friend.”

Gale matched Lisa’s pace. Her crooked teeth were a creamy color, like cadmium yellow drowned in white paint, and her long, aquiline nose bulged at the tip. “That was your first mistake,” she teased. She wore a mixed expression of guilt and amusement, like the mischievous little sister in a sitcom who just got caught pulling a prank. "But I'm sorry! Please forgive me?" She widened her eyes like a guilty puppy trying to escape the consequences for its actions.

It won’t work on Lisa, no matter how much she has always wondered what it would be like to have a sister. Jerking her head from side to side, Lisa shot water from her bangs like a sprinkler, splashing droplets all over a sputtering Gale. In the moment of distraction, Lisa darted down the hall. 

“I’m joking! I didn’t mean it!” Gale chased after her, tiny feet slapping against the blue and white tiles. “Please stop.” Tiny hands wrapped around Lisa’s forearm in a grip as tight as handcuffs. "Like, at least tell me who you are!"

“I was _supposed_ to be your consolation prize,” Lisa said. “But I’m taking back the offer.”

“Wait, why?”

“I don’t want to be friends with someone who throws a bucket of water at my head.” When she frowned, a droplet spilled from her chin to her collarbone. “Even _I_ know you’re supposed to make a good impression.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Gale bit her lip. “Really, I am! I set the bucket of water up for someone else, not for you.”

“The friend you were expecting?”

“Yes.” Gale pouted. “She _promised_ me in class. She said that the next time I got sick, she’d come and visit me the very next day. But she lied! And liars need to be punished, especially since she made me wait all day!”

“Yeah, I heard.” Lisa jerked her chin towards the end of the hall. “The lady at the front desk told me all about it.”

“Mrs. Guan?” Gale blinked. “Why?”

“I dunno. Felt bad for you, I guess.” 

“And you just...decided to come in and visit me?” Her greenish-brown eyes sparkled with admiration. “Out of the kindness of your heart?”

“Nah. I was hungry, so she bribed me with food.”

“What? So you don't even care about me? Well, guess what, stranger? I am _not_ a meal ticket!” Gale’s voice soared to an obnoxious whine. “That, like, really hurts my feelings! You need to make it up to me."

"No, I don't." Gale was like an anchor: No matter how Lisa strained forward, she couldn't budge an inch.

"Yes, you do! Won't you just play with me for a little bit? I mean, you walked all the way over here!”

“And now, I’m about to walk all the way back." Lisa wiggled her arm out of Gale’s grasp and stepped away. In a flash, it was captured again. This time, Gale tightened her grip. 

“No! Please come to my room, at least! Even if you won’t play with me, let me give you a new shirt. It'll be my way of making it up to you.”

Lisa looked down at her soaked shirt and shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

Gale's room was large and colorful. Vivid murals of sunflowers twirled over the headboard, stretching towards the ceiling in bursting strokes of golden yellow and bright green. Hand-painted images of stars, birds, plants and musical notes drifted around the walls, and a set of paint supplies sat on a tiny corner table. During Lisa's long trek, she saw some doors that were cracked open; none of the rooms she had glimpsed were as large or lavish as this. Certainly, none of them had art materials or painted flowers sprawling everywhere. A row of canvases leaned against the far wall, each neatly placed against one another. The first painting, a work in progress, displayed hot air balloons in vivid orange and pink strokes. Gale had painted the sky as pale blue with fluffy white clouds. It was so realistic that Lisa imagined herself floating above the world in one of the balloons, far away from all of her problems. 

"Come over here! I've got a great view." Gale threw open the pink curtains. Her room was directly above the lush park. "Check it out! You can see everyone over there." She pointed towards the green land across the street. An older teen boy with a cheetah-patterned shirt threw a frisbee for a chocolate lab. Over at the wooden tables, a group of friends chatted over pizza, while a young couple enjoyed a picnic on a red blanket.

"I've got the best view on the whole level," Gale boasted. "My daddy made sure of it."

“How?” Lisa looked around. The room was far larger than Grandpa’s. “I mean, is he the boss of all the doctors? Like an administrator or something? I don’t know what they’re called.”

“Not exactly. He just gets what he wants.” 

“Uh, okay.” Lisa scratched the back of her soaked neck. “By the way, where’s that shirt you promised me?”

“Oh! Wait a minute.” Gale jumped onto her large bed, and the animal toys bounced under her weight. She hopped off the other side of her bed, throwing open a small cabinet in her nightstand “Here you go!” 

“That is the ugliest shirt I have ever seen in my entire life.” It was a garish mix of polka dots in lime green and cherry red shades. Difficult to look at, like an optical illusion or the trippy acid art on Brad’s posters.

“What! You don’t like my fashion choices?” Gale gestured to her own outfit. Unlike the atrocity in her hands, her shirt was lovely: it was creamy white, with a pattern of pink roses atop green stems. It went well with her long, pleated skirt, the pink color of salmon flesh.

“Your outfit is fine," Lisa clarified. "But that shirt is...not.”

“So you’re not going to wear it?”

Lisa looked down at her wet shirt, which clung to every inch of her torso. It was uncomfortably tight, and the dripping water left puddles wherever she stood. Then, she looked back at Gale's terrible offering. “At least this shirt will get dry. Your shirt is already ruined. I mean, you can’t fix ugly.”

The other girl snickered and shook her head. “Suit yourself! You’ll just have to sit there and soak. You’ll be like that Celtic witch. You know, the lady in the water?”

Lisa rifled through her memories for a name. It had been a long time since she cracked open a fantasy book, but she had fond memories of _The Enchanted World_ , a book series stuffed with timeless tales from mythology and folklore. Her favorite was a blood-red hardcover all about witches and warlords. This book had an illustration she could never forget, which came from a story about a vengeful enchantress who cursed a princess. Hypnotized by dark magic, the princess led her ladies-in-waiting to a lush green cliff by the sea. One by one, they marched through the dirt and grass to the summit. One by one, the ladies threw themselves into the turquoise sea, their long, dark hair flowing above their plummeting bodies. After Lisa closed the book, the story sat over her psyche like a melting Dali clock. If a witch cursed her, would she have the willpower to break through the spell? Or would she succumb to dark magic and throw herself into the sea?

For all the stories she had consumed, Lisa couldn't think of a name. All the witches melded together into a large, writhing mass of magic and malice. But, as she looked into Gale's expectant eyes, the need to impress squeezed her mind, until a name popped out of thin air. "You mean, like...Morgan le Fay?”

Gale’s greenish-brown eyes nearly popped out of her skull. “Oh my God! You know about Morgan le Fay?”

“Well, she’s a famous character, right?”

“Right, but no one else has ever heard of her! I’ve never met anyone else into old legends!”

“Well, I don’t know much. I’ve just seen some stuff in fairy tales.”

“Girl, that’s enough for me! When you’re starving, even crumbs are like gold.” Gale clasped her hands. “Anyway! I was just saying you’re like the Lady in the Lake. All drenched in water and regal.”

“You think I’m regal?” Lisa lifted an eyebrow. Looked over her wet shirt. Ran a hand through her thick, soaked locks. She certainly didn't _feel_ like a dignified lady, but if Gale saw her as a cool witch, she wouldn't argue.

“Heck yeah! You got a sword for me?” Gale padded around Lisa’s side, peeking at her back. “Hiding Excalibur behind your back, are you?”

Lisa snickered despite herself. “I wish! But, maybe it's for the best. I'd probably get kicked out of here if I had a sword.”

“Haha, I know, right? Actually, funny story: I used to have toy swords, but daddy took them away when I bonked a nurse on the head. It was an accident though!”

“I can’t blame you. A lot of the nurses here are really annoying.”

“Oh my god, I know, right? It’s like, ‘Hello, I’m here! Can you stop ignoring me?’”

“I feel the same way! My grandpa is sick but the nurses just didn’t seem to care at all. They won’t even look at me.”

Gale bobbed her head. “I completely understand you, girl. That’s my whole entire life in one sentence.”

“Wait, people ignore you?” It was hard to believe, with all the extra luxuries in the room. She imagined Gale spent all her time being pampered.

“I mean...kinda? They’re nice when I ask them for stuff, but even when I talk to them, they never really _listen_ , you know? I just feel like...nothing I say matters to them. I'm just another sick kid. They just see me as this wimpy little weakling who needs to be taken care of...but not _listened_ to. Does that make sense? Or do I sound crazy?"

A burst of fondness spread through Lisa's chest. _She and I are the same._ They both felt ignored, forgotten, unimportant. All of those worries from earlier flew away, like dust in the wind. Her presence wasn't upsetting Gale; the little girl was just as much of a weird troublemaker as she was. Comfort loosened her posture, made her smiles come more easily. Normally Lisa didn't touch strangers, but now she put a gentle hand on Gale's shoulder. "I'm just like you," she said. "People never listen to me, either. It makes you feel completely alone, doesn't it?"

"It really does!" Gale smiled shyly at her, seemingly charmed by the friendly touch. "It sucks. I hate being alone all the time.”

“I completely understand.” Lisa smiled. “I spend most of my time alone, too. Now that my grandpa’s in the hospital, it’s just me in our big house. It gets kind of spooky at night.”

“Oh my gosh, I bet! You really don’t have anyone to help you out?” Gale sat down on her bed and picked up a purple octopus toy. "Come join me." Lisa obeyed and was rewarded with a black cat plushie.

“My brother drives over in the morning to take me to school." She hugged the cat to her chest. "And when he drops me off, he’ll be with me for a bit. But he always leaves at nighttime.” 

“That sounds _scary_. My parents would never leave me alone for so long. Especially at night time!”

Indignation burned in Lisa’s throat. “Well, I don’t have any parents.”

“Oh.” 

They fell into an awkward silence, glancing at one another, then looking away when their eyes met. 

“Hello, ladies!” Mrs. Guan, the blonde nurse from earlier, appeared at the doorway. In her hands was a tray of food that had Lisa's mouth watering. She took a step forward, then noticed the puddles on the floor. Little lakes popped up wherever Lisa had stood, leading in a line straight to the window and then to Gale's bed. “Oh my goodness, is this a hospital or a water park? What on earth happened here? Gale, you didn’t play a trick on this poor girl, did you?”

“I…” Lisa looked at Gale, who shot her a frantic look. “Um, I spilled some water on myself?”

“Oh ho ho!” Mrs. Guan giggled. “I get it. I was a clumsy kid when I was younger. You should see me when I’m in the kitchen! I’ve got to make simple, easy dishes or else I’ll get stains all over myself. One time I got some chicken juice on the ceiling. Can you believe it? My husband gave me a real tongue lashing for that!” 

"Uh-huh." Lisa eyed the delicious food. It smelled divine. But before she ate, she had to ask: "By the way, how did you get here so quickly? It took me forever to get here."

“Oh, I took the shortcut.”

“There’s a shortcut?!”

“Yes, dear! Didn’t I tell you?” Lisa emphatically shook her head.  “My bad. Anyway! I got your lunchy-poo. True to my word, I got a chicken sandwich, potato salad, sodey-pop and—of course—chocolate!”

“Thank you.” After a long day of hunger, it smelled incredible. Lisa barely finished speaking before she threw her mouth into the sandwich, her last syllable devoured by a tidal wave of mustard, tomato and chicken breast.  As Lisa ate, Gale threw a nervous look at the nurse.

“This girl told me you bribed her with food to get her to hang out with me. Is that true?"

“Of course not!” Mrs. Guan swore; at the same time, Lisa said "Yep!" through a mouthful of lettuce.

“Well, uh, it’s like this,” the nurse stammered.  “She came here out of the goodness of her heart.  The food was just, um, extra motivation. Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Sure,” Lisa said, ripping apart a wad of chicken.  It was drenched in mayonnaise and mustard, a delicious explosion of flavors on her tongue.

“See? You’re popular, Gale. Even strangers want to see you!”

Gale smiled weakly. “Thanks, ma’am. I appreciate it.”

“Of course!” Mrs. Guan chirped. Before she left, her eyes narrowed at Lisa's shirt, as if she knew exactly what Gale had done. There was disappointment on her face, but not a lick of surprise. In a flash, her features shifted to a sugary smile, and she waved before stepping out.

Gale bumped her shoulder into Lisa's.  "Thanks for covering for me," she said.

"No problem," Lisa said through her bite.  Silence fell upon the room, save for her chewing and swallowing.

“You eat like an animal.” Gale curled her lip when Lisa slurped up her potato salad. "It's kinda gross." Lisa snorted in response, like a pig at a trough. 

“Ew, you’re nasty!”

“I’m hungry,” Lisa corrected. She licked her lips when the sandwich was done, smiling all the while.

“Uh, obviously. When was the last time you ate?” 

“I mean, I had food this morning. But I haven’t eaten something _this_ good in forever,” Lisa admitted. “Nowadays I make my own food. And I’m not really a cook.” In reality, she rarely eats dinner. She has trouble keeping down what little she eats, anyway.

“Doesn’t your brother help?”

Lisa scoffed. “Boys don’t cook in the Armstrong household. I’ve been cooking since I was a little kid. My Grandpa said it’s my job as the woman of the household.”

“Ew, really? That’s terrible!”

“That’s just the way things are.” 

“Well...that’s not okay. You shouldn’t have to do everything yourself.”

“Whatever.” Lisa shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

“Girl, you are amazing.” Gale sighed. “I don’t even know how to cook an egg.” 

“I’ll teach you sometime.”

Gale jumped to her feet, bouncing in excitement. “Really?!” 

“Sure!” Lisa couldn't help but smile at the enthusiasm. “But it’s just an egg. Not really exciting.”

“Girl, the egg’s just an excuse for a sleepover! We could make cookies and watch whatever movies we wanted! We could even do nails and stay up all night. I mean, you have the whole house to yourself.” Then a foreign thought pierced her elation, and she deflated. “Oh, but I can’t go to your house until I get better. And who knows how long that can take?”

“You can’t get out of here at all?” Lisa bit into her chocolate bar. “Like, you couldn’t leave to go to the park down there?”

Gale walked over to the window, watching the brown dog and its owner leap and bound over the grassy hills. “I mean, I can go to the park, but only when I’m supervised. Like, a nurse has to be there, or my parents.”

“If I went with you, would that count as supervision?”

Gale’s greenish-brown eyes widened, and her freckled face broke into a smile. “I think it does! Let’s do it!” She grabbed Lisa’s hand started dragging her to the door, but Lisa shoved her chocolate bar and the soda bottle into her pockets. Free food should never go to waste.

“Are you going to take me down that mysterious shortcut?” 

“No, we'll use _another_ secret passage!” Gale laughed. “Sorry about sending you the long way. I thought it would be a fun way to prank my friend by being late, but…she never showed.”

Lisa squeezed her hand. “Fuck her. At least I’m here.”

“Oh my gosh, you’re terrible!” Gale squealed. “But I’m glad you showed up, anyway. You’re much more fun...wait, what’s your name again?” 

“I thought I was the Lady of the Lake?”

“No! Your _real_ name!” 

“Lisa.” She held out her hand, and Gale beamed, pumping their hands like a businessman trying to make a strong first impression. 

“Gale MacGavin! Nice to meet’cha.”

“Wait...MacGavin like the governor?”

“Yep!” She lit up in happy surprise. “He’s my grandpa!” 

Suddenly, the large, fancy room makes sense. Of course a girl from a rich family could get special treatment. “Oh.”

“I’m surprised you know who he is! A lot of kids don’t know about him. I’m always saying, ‘He’s the guy who’s making all the fish-men!’”

“Is he really _making_ them? Or is he just paying other people to make them?”

“Tomatoes, to- _ma-_ toes.” Gale waved her hand like she was shooing away a fly. “Anyway, turn left here. When we get to the end, we can use the stairs.”

“Can’t we just use the elevator?”

Gale pursed her lips. “We _could,_ but I’m afraid Mrs. Guan wouldn’t let us. Technically, I’m not supposed to leave…”

“You’re afraid of the nurse?” Lisa teased. “What are you, a chicken?” 

“No, of course not!” Gale squawked. “I just...don’t want to bother her anymore, that’s all.”

“Suuuuure.”

“Shaddup!”

They giggled down the stony stairwell, a long descent through cold and industrial surroundings. Their shoes clapped against the cement stairs, and their hands brushed against the cold, cracked walls. At one point, Lisa nearly slipped in her wet shoes, but Gale caught her before she could fall. It was dark and dreary, but their high-pitched voices traded jokes and bounced laughter off the old walls. The silly sounds of happy children echoed everywhere as they chased each other and raced to see who can go down the fastest. Lisa felt light-headed and happy, like a bird that has just learned how to fly. This must be what having a sister feels like. She squeezed Gale's hand and felt pure bliss when her hand was squeezed back. They were like best friends who had known each other for years, too in sync to possibly be strangers. Cheerful and breathless. Reaching the final floor was a victory. Lisa raced towards it, but Gale flattened herself against the dirty wall and held up a cautious hand like she was a police officer about to break into a suspect’s home. “Wait just a minute…”

“What are you doing?”

“ _S_ _hhh!_ ” A few moments passed before Gale dramatically threw open the door and dashed out. Lisa ran after her, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“Girl, I can’t believe we just did that!" Gale breaks into the enormous lobby and jumps a foot into the air, shaking her fists in excitement. "And we didn’t even get caught!”

“I know, right?” 

The hospital’s front lobby was an enormous room stuffed with coughing people and nervous whispers. A large, glass facade revealed the outside of the building, which filled Lisa's mouth with the taste of freedom: she could see the acacia trees lining the front entrance, the stone walkway where families gathered and drank in the sun. The room felt stifling: sick people waited in chairs, holding their heads and moaning; parents patted their children’s hair for comfort; nurses welcomed newcomers, handing out clipboards like candy with expressionless faces. Lisa wanted to break free with her precious new friend.

Holding hands, Gale and Lisa sneaked towards the front door, trying to suppress their smiles. Winding through the crowd of strangers, they reached the glass doors that would open up a world of freedom. Soon they would run across to the street to a land of green grass, fresh air, and running dogs.

Then Lisa looked up, and her breath died in her throat.

Brad walked up to the front doors, his eyes glassy and his red face etched in anger. It looked like he just got back from a fight; there were new bruises on his knuckles, and he clutched his head like he had a migraine. “Gale, wait, stop—”

“Lisa?” His beady eyes widened when they fall upon her face. Then they drifted down to her chest, and his face went hard with anger. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Nothing! I just got some water spilled on me.”

“You need to change.” He ripped Lisa from Gale's grip. “We’re going home.”

“But my friend and I were just about to play!”

“Now!” Brad yelled, and Lisa flinched. Gale’s mouth dropped open in shock, and Lisa's tongue soured with the taste of disappointment. In one moment, something bright and beautiful shriveled into ashes. There was no more excitement or admiration in Gale's greenish-brown eyes. Now, her face was drawn in an expression of disgust. Maybe Lisa should have seen this coming. Why would a rich girl with a loving family want to be friends with her? Judging from the shock on her face, Gale had never known family members could shout and claw or drag one another away, kicking and screaming.

“Sorry, Gale!” Lisa called out. But the little girl just stared, dumb-founded, a statue of surprise that shrank the farther Brad dragged Lisa away.

“Brad, stop it!” 

“You need a new shirt,” he said gruffly. “People can’t see you like this.”

“Someone spilled some water on me, that’s all.” He shook his head, and her voice turned whiny, like a child’s. “I’m telling the truth!” 

They rushed down the pavilion of shady trees, where families lingered and whispered comforting words to one another. There were no soft whispers between her and Brad. Lisa’s voice was hoarse and frightened when she dug her heels in and pulled away: “Don’t you want to see Grandpa?”

“I saw him earlier. Now come on!” He jerked her arm, and her whole body lurched forward. She was bitterly silent the whole way home, crossing her arms and scowling as the city flew by. 

Then they turned right where they should have turned left, and she glanced at him. His mouth was twisted downwards, and his eyes were dark in shadows. Every muscle in his body was taut with tension. 

He wouldn't look back at her.

Lisa hid her chest under her arms. Why did it upset him so much? It wasn't her fault. It was Gale’s. Just a silly prank. Was he upset because he thought she was being clumsy and childish? Did he think she was disgracing the family name by running around in a ruined shirt?

The minute he saw her chest, he freaked out. She looked down. The fabric clung to her skin, wet and translucent. Was that the issue? Was her body so horrifically disgusting that the mere sight of her skin was enough to make him a monster? He never treated her like this before. What was so wrong about her body now?

He drove up to his apartment building, which she hadn’t seen in a long time. She wanted to ask what was going on, but her voice died in her throat. It felt like one wrong word would set him off. He’d already bruised her arm with how tightly he held on. So when he stepped out of his car and slammed the door shut, she didn’t wait for him to yell, “Get out.” She meekly slipped out and followed him, head down like she expected a beating.

The last time she visited his apartment, it looked like a cool bachelor pad, something out of a movie. Brad hung up records and music posters with Alfonse Mucha art and men jamming on guitars. He had shining trophies on the mantle and beer bottles neatly organized above his kitchen cabinets.

Now, it looked like a tornado ravaged the place. There was a hole in the wall. Trash cluttered the kitchen table, and dirt marred the walls. It must have been weeks since he last cleaned. Glass shards glimmered in the living room carpet, like he’d thrown a bottle and missed a few pieces when he tried to clean it up.

“Brad, why are we here?”

He stomped into a room, rustling and slamming cabinet doors. When he emerged, he threw a big shirt at her. “Put that on.” It was made of soft, crimson cotton. 

“Thanks,” she whispered. Maybe he just wanted to help her as soon as possible. _Maybe I’m overthinking it,_ she thought. _He’s always been quiet._ When she lifted the bottom of her white shirt to take it off, his booming voice made her flinch.

“Change in the bathroom. I don’t need to see that.”

“Um, okay?” She had changed in front of him countless times before. Never had he yelled at her for doing so. Frightened, she shuffled into the dirty bathroom, with grimy windows and trash overflowing from the small can beside the toilet. Here, in this filthy room, she took off her white shirt and slipped on the dry, red clothing he’d given her. It felt comfortable, and it smelled like Brad.

But his scent no longer comforted her.

She rifled through the cabinets aimlessly, delaying her escape from the room. Although it was grimy, here she could be alone. She dreaded leaving this small haven and returning to the black cloud that had devoured her brother.

 _What’s wrong with him? Is it me?_ She looked the same as she always did, with pale blue eyes and messy black hair. Her body was all knobby knees and too-long limbs. Ugly. Did Brad hate her because she was older now? Did he see her as a woman now, instead of as his sister?

She wishes she could have stayed small forever. At that point in her life, she’d never dreamed of killing her father or hating her body. "Don't think of him," she told herself. Pointed a finger at her reflection, twisted her features into a grim mask of determination. Pretended she was in Thomas' small office, overlooking the city. He always told her she was enough, so she whispered those words to the blurry girl in the mirror. "You are enough. You shouldn't be ashamed."

Unconvinced, she took a deep sigh and gripped the sink. Her breathing exercises helped a little bit. She would have to talk about this with Thomas later; maybe he could shed some light on why Brad was acting so weird. Absentmindedly, she pulled open the cabinets, which were full of shaving supplies and a hairbrush with so many black strands it looked like a tiny animal. She plucked the thick, wiry hair and plopped the little black rat into the trashcan. Outside the room, Brad shuffled and sighed and muttered to himself, his voice low and angry. When she pressed her ear to the door, she heard him slam down the phone receiver. Who was he talking to? What was on his mind?

She didn't want to find out. Afraid of being yelled at again, she walked around the room, started searching under the sink. Hidden behind a bottle of toilet cleaner was a magazine. Glossy pages of big-breasted woman shone in the light. Lisa snickered out of childish satisfaction at finding out a dirty secret; then she wilted at the implications. _Even you, Brad?_ She thought he was pure. But even her big brother had yucky little nudie mags. She slipped it back into its hiding place and sat on the floor for a long time. 

There weren’t any razors in Brad’s bathroom. It was probably for the best.

It felt like an eternity had passed before Lisa stepped out into Brad’s apartment. A dull purple glow swallowed the last remnants of golden light, and now the sky looked like a fading bruise. There were no stars in the outside world, which has gotten darker and quieter. Lisa stepped carefully, watching for broken glass on the carpet. She heard nothing, except for the faint sound of Brad’s snoring.

His large body was sprawled over his old brown couch, a gift from one of his childhood friends. Uncle Rick, the man introduced himself as. “Do you remember me?” He had asked her, all eager-eyed. “No,” she had told him, and his face fell. 

Was that why Brad hated her? Should she lie more? What types of lies should she tell for him to like her? What kind of person would he like?

She stood over his sleeping body. He clutched something in his meaty hand, but all of her prodding and pulling proved fruitless. His grip was strong as iron. Strong enough to rip two girls apart. An open bottle of booze lies on the table. It tastes so bad she gags.

“Brad, can you take me home?"

He answered with a rippling snore, like a motorcycle turning on. Thank God for the food she had earlier, because there was nothing edible in his refrigerator. Bored out of her mind, she cleared up the fast-food wrappers on the floor and threw them into the trash, which overflowed with bottles. Hennessy, Smirnoff, Jack Daniel's, the labels said. She has seen those bottles before in Marty’s trash can. At least Brad didn't fall asleep with the TV on, filling the room with flashing lights and robotic laughter. Lisa knew she should be grateful and she is here and not in Marty's house; she knew things have gotten so much better than they were before.

She tip-toed to the kitchen so her tears won't wake him up. Flies buzz around the bare lightbulb, and she weeps into her hands, fear and loathing flowing up from her stomach and pouring out of her sopping eyes. Yes, things were better than they were before, but was it so greedy of her to want a normal life? She just wanted Grandpa to be strong and healthy again. And she wanted Brad, not this furious monster that wore her brother's face.

A hard lump swelled in her throat. Maybe she deserved this. Maybe it was a test of her strength.

Who was she to think she could be friends with someone like Gale? She had no business laughing and holding hands with the granddaughter of a governor. What could she possibly have in common with a happy little rich girl with parents who indulged her and a staff full of nurses who did whatever she wanted? 

Lisa didn’t belong in that colorful hospital room, filled with sunflowers and hot air balloon paintings and purple octopus plushies. Maybe this was where Lisa belonged: In a dirty, beaten-down apartment with holes in the walls. She didn't need indulgent parents who smothered her in love. She was fine here.

 _I’ll get through this,_ she thought. Like Grandpa always said, Armstrongs are made of tougher stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I want to write a lighter chapter! I'm going to throw in an homage to [The Meaning of Life!](https://lisa-rpg.fandom.com/wiki/The_Meaning_of_Life) Except instead of a middle finger, Lisa gets a bucket of water to the head. Oh, boy, it'll be great!  
> This chapter as I'm writing it: Okay, but let's end it on a sad-ass note 👀
> 
> Now, I wanted to explain Brad's behavior a little bit. I don't know if it's clear in the text, but I wanted to depict his newfound discomfort with Lisa in the wake of Marty's conviction. Knowing that she's been so horribly abused, he wants to make sure that doesn't happen again. Thus, when he sees her with a wet shirt, he freaks out—he thinks people will sexualize her and that it could possibly attract predators, so he overreacts out of protectiveness.
> 
> Combine that with his newfound stress, along with his drug use, and it's not going to be a very good time at all. I hope that by now it's clear how much I love Brad as a character, but the fact of the matter is that drug use turns you into a completely different person, so I wanted to be honest and reflect that. 
> 
> We're going to step into his head pretty soon so we can see more of what's going on in his life.
> 
> Before I go, here's a fun fact: Gale is actually _not_ an original character. In fact, she's a canon part of the original series!
> 
> Anyway, thank you as always for reading. Have a great day!


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